Narcissus
by SweetThing2
Summary: Two people with an abysmal loathing for one another, form an understanding. Where does it lead, if anywhere? AU Future Fic, TristanRory. Updated 929.
1. When It Started

                                                _Narcissus_

**Author:** SweetThing

**Chapter**: 1 "When It Started"

**Disclaimer**: I don't own nothin'. ("Nnnnothin?! Ooh!" Heh, don't you just love _Oklahoma_?) Seriously though, I'm a dirt po' teenager.  The story's title and the lyrics come from a song off Alanis Morissette's awesome CD, _Under Rug Swept,_ and the chapter title belongs to The Strokes, who also have a kick-ass CD, _Is This It_. _Breakfast At Tiffany's_ and Dawson Leery aren't mine, either.  

**Author's Note**: Well, I've graduated from one-parters, and this is my attempt at a real, live, multi-chapter saga. Well, not really, but you get my point. Anyway, one big thing you need to know about this story: it's AU all the way. The following things never happened: Tristan and Summer never broke up right before Madeline's party in S1, and neither did Rory and Dean. Thus, the Piano Kiss?  Never happened either. Which means, any conversations about it are non-existent, as well. Also, Tristan and Rory's conversation in _The Third Lorelai_ about him liking someone else didn't happen, and as well as him inviting Rory to the PJ Harvey concert. Rory and Dean broke up, for the first time, in _They Shoot Gilmores, Don't They?_. Everything in seasons two and three have happened, except: Tristan never left. Confused yet? Oh, and this chapter's in Rory's POV, but I'll be switching to Tristan's the next chapter, and then I'll switch again after that, and so on. Lastly, feedback is no enemy of mine. In fact, we're best friends.(lol)  I would love to know what you think. 

**Dedications**: To Angeleyez, my bouncer (lol!) and wonderful beta, and Stew Pid, who finally got me to get up off my keyster and write again with her spectacular review.

Dear narcissus boy/I know you've never really apologized for anything/I know you've never really taken responsibility/I know you've never really listened to a woman

What am I doing here?

I knew I shouldn't have come to this function my grandparents term a "gathering" in the first place. The DeWitt's, people I've never met in my life, were throwing a house-warming party for themselves. My grandparents told me last week at one of our dinners (I guess when you're rich, you can do whatever you want) and according to my Grandma, I just had to attend with them.

"Yes, I insist you come with us. You're home all summer! And it's not like we get to see you nearly enough, what with—"

I cut her off before she could make a not-so-veiled remark about my mother keeping me from them.  

"Well, it's not like I don't want to spend time with you guys, it's just that I don't know if I'd have anyone to talk to, and—"

This time, I was the one being cut off, by my grandfather. 

"Now that just isn't so, Rory. I believe I forgot to mention, many students from Yale are going to be there with their families, possibly even some of your acquaintances." 

I snorted inwardly. Yeah, which ones? Bailey, my man-izing roommate who buys her clothes at the local thrift store, or Charlotte, one of my friends from World Economics, whose paying her way through college against the wishes of her mother and beer-slinging stepfather?

"And even if they aren't", he added with a wink, "Almost 11,000 students attend your University, you know. You never know who you could meet tonight who you would've never known existed otherwise".

His words were kind, engaging, like they always are. Yet, they stung. Because I know he was talking about guys, specifically. And the trouble is, I only want one particular guy. 

Stephen McGarrity was, as far as I'm concerned, the love of my life. Cheesy as it sounds, I had this feeling from the moment I met him, at a terribly rowdy, Animal House cliché-style fraternity party Bailey dragged me to in the middle of our Freshman year.  She, of course, wanted to go to ogle the "men", and, not comprehending why I wouldn't want to go, made a deal with me: if I went with her tonight, she'd never ask me to go to one of these things again. 

"C'mon, Ror, we'll be like jackals! They hunt in pairs." She exclaimed, running the flat iron through her highlighted red hair for the thousandth time.

"Oh God", I groaned, "Well, if you're going to quote 'Fraiser'…"

"Ha! I knew I'd get you. Let's go!" Bailey jumped up and led me to the door. 

When we got there, it was almost just as I had imagined (which hardly ever happens with me): loud, over-crowded, horrible music, and an over-powering stench of what else?

"BOOZE! I need more booze over here!" shouted an extremely smashed, extremely rowdy guy I recognized from my American Studies class. He was one of the best students, too. Jeez. It's always common at my school, I learned quickly, to need a release every weekend after all the "rigorous studying" we do during the week But this was taking it to new levels.

As the night wore on, most of the people became the same: either horribly drunk or horribly obnoxious, or both. (Or, I suppose they could've been obnoxious because they were drunk; I'll never really know). That is, until I stumbled upon a kindred soul. Beer didn't sit well with me, so I had been filling up on soda. Around my fifth red cup, I really needed to go to the bathroom. 

After being directed to the facilities, I approached the door. I hesitated a split second before knocking once, then twice. 

"Hello? Anyone in there?"

I listened intently, putting my ear to the door. I didn't hear a thing. As far as I knew, the bathroom was free. So, I turned the doorknob, expecting nothing.

And saw that not only was someone very much in the bathroom, but that they were actually going to the bathroom. And that someone? Was a guy. 

We screamed in perfect sync with each other. 

"Oh my God, oh my God, I am so sorry—I—just, just thought that—"

"I know, I know—I must not have heard you knocking, it's completely my fault", he stuttered as he zipped and buttoned and whatever else he needed to do while I faced the hallway, my face as red as the paint on the walls. 

When he had finished, he went over to the sink and began washing his hands, after reassuring me that it was indeed all right to turn around. I waited, more than a little uncomfortable. Despite all this, I still really had to go. 

"So", this guy began, "It just occurred to me—we've been through so much together already, and we haven't even been properly introduced." He put out his now clean hand. "Steve McGarrity. Well, Stephen if you want to get technical. And you are..?"

I giggled slightly at his comment before accepting his handshake. 

"Rory Gilmore. Lorelai, really, but everyone calls me Rory."

"Nice to meet you, Rory-Lorelai-Really Gilmore."

"Same here", I said through my smile, "You know, I am really sorry about that. I wouldn't have come in, except I didn't hear anything, and I just kind of figured that nobody was in there, which I mean doesn't give me any right to---"

Oh lord. Why the hell was I rambling so much? It's not like he was that good-looking. Sure, he had the tall build, broad shoulders, (but not bulky), disheveled dark hair, etc. He also had these passionate eyes, a frosty gray-green, that made it look like he was seeing everything for the first time. But no, I was so not rambling over him. The last thing I felt ready for then was another relationship. It was right after midterms, but I still had hardly any interest in starting anything up with someone.

"It's alright", he chuckled,  "It must have been the music blasting down there that threw us off. I feel like I'm the only one here who's cringing at it."

"Same here!" I replied, "Except, that may be because we might be the only two here who are sober."

"You could be right," he agreed, "So, do I sense another serious music fan here?"

"That you do," I grinned, "My friend and I are completely obsessed with finding new bands, making fun of people who like mainstream; we have been for years…you name it, we have it."

We started exiting the bathroom as he said, 

"I see. Have you been to DeadBeats, then?" 

"That's an understatement. I practically lived there the first few weekends here!"

He returned my earlier grin. "I think our bathroom meeting may have been kismet. Who knew that I'd find the only other sane person here when I went to take a piss?" 

I laughed whole-heartedly, no longer nervous. "Very eloquently put."

"Well, I am a Yale student, aren't I?" he said good-naturedly. 

By the end of the night, our conversation evolved from music to movies, to Yale to life in general. It turned out he had also been brought there against his will, by his best friend, Brian. He asked for my phone number, saying Brian had a friend in a great new band that was playing at some club I can't remember the name of now, and did I want to go with them? I can still recall my first thought.

Do I?!

Yes, I was so giddy (I think that's the word), that suddenly I was sixteen again, making sure I transferred his number carefully from my hand (yeah, he actually touched my hand! I was pathetic) to a piece of paper when I got back to the dorm, and making sure my cell phone had enough batteries in case he called while I was in class or out somewhere. I was officially smitten. 

After that first date, we embarked on an amazing relationship that would've lasted two years this January. He was so patient about everything. He's one of those guys that are so willing, so open and loving; that all you want to do is make them as happy as possible. It was that aspect of his personality that drew me to Steve in the first place. We'd have our fights, of course, but sooner or later, one of us would always cave. He would show up at the dorm with flowers or another corny-but-it's-ok-because-I-love-him present; or I would end up calling him to apologize. But besides that, I thought we were happy. I thought we could get through anything together. 

Apparently, I was wrong. Or under the influence of some rampant delusion. Because exactly two months, two weeks, and five days ago (but I really haven't been keeping track of it, honestly), the man I thought I'd be with for the rest of my life, whom I had shared everything with, told me he wasn't sure if he loved me anymore. The guy I had been with in the most intimate way possible informed me that we needed some "time" to "be without each other", that his feelings for me had changed. That he needed to find himself before he could be with anyone.

In other words, a load of bull designed to let me down easy, as the saying goes. I was devastated. I couldn't believe that a person as unique as Steve was dumping me in the most clichéd way possible. I couldn't get my mind around the fact that he had, actually, fallen out of love with me. 

"Maybe what we have goes beyond romantic love and all that, Ror," he said, trying to console me. Please. Who is he, Dawson Leery? The fact was he didn't want to be with me anymore. And I wasn't used to that. Ever since I entered the "dating world", all the boys, to be blunt, had always wanted me. Sure, Dean had broken up with me, but that didn't hurt as much as the fact that I had strung him along for so long. And I'll be frank, I deserved it.

But with Stephen, it was so different. I had never felt this way about a guy before. The way I felt for him was so…mature. We seemed so right together, and it was mind-boggling to think that his feelings for me had faded all of a sudden, when I was sure that he felt the same way about me. Wrong again, Gilmore. 

Anyway, after that, I went through the ritual Mourning Period taught to me by my mother so many years ago. I managed to finish my finals and get through my sophomore year, despite my "personal problems", as they were referred to by one of my professors. And now, it's summer break (thank God), and here I am, at an exceptionally boring and stuffy party, where I know no one, except for a few faces I've seen around campus.

And I am miserable. My grandparents don't seem to notice, though, as they chat up Dean Fellows, the head of admissions, about my academic achievements at Yale so far. Oh joy. You would think I'd like being praised by all these people, but after so many years it gets old, and you wonder why they're complimenting you in the first place. Yes, I get good grades, but I mean—I'm not exactly a rocket scientist. Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered that my friends and family think so much of me, but it just seems silly to be going on about how I aced my latest test when people here are taking double majors and studying to be astrophysicists. So when Grandpa says,

"…And, she took Advanced European Culture, a challenge for any junior, this year, as a sophomore! And not only did she pass, she went out with a B+! We're so proud of her hard work."

I smile, nod, and accept the comment as gracefully as possible. 

"Well, I do work hard, but really, Grandpa, I'm sure Dean Fellows is tired of hearing all about me", I blush in spite of myself.

The Dean chuckles. "Nonsense, Rory. Your grandparents have a lot to be proud of. I knew accepting you would not be a mistake from the get-go. I'm very glad to hear you've been proving me right the past two years."

"Thank you," I smile easily, "Now if you would all excuse me for a moment?" 

"Of course, of course", Fellows waves me off, "Mingle, have fun. You lucked out with this party. At the last one it was just us stuffy old folks, you know."

For some reason, this causes both my grandfather and the Dean to burst into hysterics. Grandma has a wary look about her that says, "Oh Lord. It's the wine." I pull her aside slightly.

"Wow, they seem to be having a good time."

"Either that or Margaret's bought that awful Merlot blend again. He hasn't had three glasses yet, and just look at the way they're carrying on! I'm inclined to believe it's the former." She sighs apprehensively and puts a hand to her forehead. She suddenly looks back at me, as if noticing me for the first time.

"Oh, but Harris is right! Go off, have fun. Do you need something?" she inquiries.

"Actually…do you happen to know where the bathroom is in the house?" I reply.

"Oh, of course. James has been giving a tour of their 'grand estate' all night", she says, obviously holding back an eye roll.  I'm again reminded of the social conduct of the wealthy. 

"Just take a left right when you walk in, and you'll see the door. You can't miss it", she smiles. 

"Thanks, Grandma. I won't be long." I say, and start to walk across the lavish back yard towards the house. I open the sliding glass door easily, and step inside.

The house really is beautiful, despite Grandma's earlier comments. It's big, airy, crisp white paint covering every wall as far as the eye can see. To the right, there is a grand looking staircase, winding half around to the upstairs bedrooms. The furniture is polished oak, which has been washed out, so it looks lighter. Pictures of ancient relatives and beautiful, elegant locations painted in bold, sweeping colors dot the walls with perfect spacing between them. I stand there for a moment, in awe that people actually live in houses like this, despite my years of having dinner every week with my grandparents. I almost forget why I've come in here in the first place. 

Oh! Bathroom, right. My bladder reminds me. I take a left, and, just as Grandma said, I immediately see a door. 

When I've finished up in the washroom, I'm almost reluctant to go back outside. Okay, fine, the last thing I feel like doing right now is going back out there. Out there with adults I don't know, classmates I hardly see, and the same types of conversations, over and over, as if someone pressed the "repeat" button on a CD player. Plus, my feet are killing me. Damn strappy heels. Fit for summer? Yeah, I don't think so. I have the blisters to prove it. Ugh! 

Then again….Dean Fellows and Grandma (and Grandpa, through his laughter) did say I should mingle, and have fun. Who says I can't do that inside? The house seems deserted, but you never know. I decide to take my own personal tour of the house. The DeWitts are close friends of Grandma and Grandpa. Plus, nobody will miss me for at least an hour. I start off down a slightly narrow hallway, opposite the bathroom. The wall is faux-finished a light peach, the elegant paintings continuing to fill the walls. After a few feet, I come across a plain wooden door. Hmm. Well, curiosity killed the cat, right? I ignore this and turn the knob…

…And find a simple, clean, TV room (well, that's what us non-rich people call it), with a deep blue striped couch, a slightly ornate coffee table, and a home entertainment system that would make any tech-geek drool. There's a huge television, a VCR, DVD player, and a very expensive-looking stereo, with too many buttons to count. This, I think, must be a family room of some sort. I peruse the room once more. The TV looks so inviting. I could hide out in here, at least for a while, until I'm forced to go back for fear of my grandparents worrying about me. Yes, I decide. That's what I'll do.

I take off my white, strappy sandals, which were clearly made in hell, designed to torture the evil sinning women, and flop down as best I can in my gauzy, knee-length skirt and blouse. Lorelai had bought the skirt for me on one of our shopping extravaganzas, you can tell by the floral pattern, set against a perfect yellow. I find the remote in an instant, and turn on the television.

After a bit of surfing through the one-hundred-and-thirty-one channels, I finally settle on a movie. Breakfast At Tiffany's has just started, it turns out, on one of those "classic movie" channels. I toss the remote on the other side of the sofa, content. I love this movie. My mother only likes watching it to make fun of the male lead, but I really like it: the story, the actors. It's one of those films that really just make you feel good after watching it. Oh God. I sound like some sappy critic. I've watched way too many movies for my own good. Oh, well. I fix my attention to the screen.

*

Almost two hours later, I am almost bawling. I sniff as the final scene starts up, blatantly fake rain pouring down in sheets as Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard share that famous screen-kiss everyone's seen a thousand times. I wipe my eyes. I never cry at movies like this. Why the hell am I so weepy?

Oh who am I kidding? I already know. Steve. It's been more than two months since we broke up, and I'm still thinking about him. I still can't see myself with anyone else. His name still sets off a flood of emotions whenever it enters my thoughts, and I'm still crying over what could've been! God! I'm pathetic. I want this feeling to be gone. I want to move on! It's never been this hard before. New tears roll down my cheeks, angry ones this time. I wipe them away defiantly. Whatever happens, I will get over Steve McGarrity, and---

A noise interrupts my thoughts. 

"Is anyone in---oh! Sorry",

"Oh no, that's alright, I—",

Wait a minute. That voice. Oh, dear God. I immediately steel myself and then, slowly turn around to see if I am correct in my assumption.

Shit.

I quickly get over the shock.

"Hello, Tristan", I say as evenly as I can. There is no way in hell I'm letting him see me like I just was. 

"Well, well. Didn't expect to see you here, Rory", he replies, half sincerely, half sneering like the crude jackass he is.

"Likewise", I say, my voice cold, "Except I was more hoping that I wouldn't see you here. Or anywhere, for that matter."

"Oh, you wound me. You don't know how much it hurts me to be disliked by my inferior," he replies, setting his empty wine glass on the table.

I roll my eyes. If he thinks this is affecting me at all, he's delusional. As if money matters to me in the least. Tristan DuGrey has irritated me constantly with his insults, crude remarks, and extremely vulgar suggestiveness ever since my sophomore year of high school. Even after that year, when we had almost no classes together, he'd be right behind me whenever we were forced to be in the same room, finding new ways to annoy me; as every other girl practically drooled over him. This is the lesser of several evils with him for me.

"Please. Everyone knows you not only waste your family's money that you brag so much about, but many a guy at Yale has seen exactly what you spend it on," I say, full of ammunition for his next attack. "And besides, I do recall our grandfathers having golf dates set up for the rest of the summer. They're pretty chummy." I add just for laughs.

"Yes," he says mock thoughtfully, walking around the couch before plopping down on it, "Well, you've got me there. Speaking of grandfathers though, I do remember seeing yours out on the patio about an hour ago, singing an unforgettable rendition of "The Yale Fight Song" with several of his fellow colleagues. He seems to have developed quite a taste for the wine." 

I glare at him. Here we go. Round 12,475.

"As opposed to your father, who's been the topic of conversation at my grandparents' dinner table almost every week with his adultery escapades? Let's think about that, Tristan." I shoot back.

He looks surprised, but recovers quickly.

"You don't know shit about my father, Rory, except what your gossip-loving grandmother hears through the grape vine," he says with conviction. "My father is a hard-working, dedicated man who—"

I cut in abruptly.  I 've heard enough. He wants to play fake Daddy's Advocate? Fine. 

"Oh yeah, so that must be why the rumor is that he and his partner both work overtime every weekend. And why his secretary calls at all hours of the day. Or wait, that's what my grandmother was talking about, so it must not be true, right?"

He, oddly enough, doesn't miss a beat. "I'd rather have him as a father than some Neanderthal who works at a diner for a living."

 "Excuse me? First of all, the only Neanderthal here is you. And second, not that I have to answer to you, but Luke, my stepfather, owns a diner. My dad lives in Boston."

"Whatever. I'm a Neanderthal; you're a spoiled virgin princess who can do no wrong. It's all relative in the end, isn't it?" he grins wickedly.

"Please. I didn't get into a top school because daddy pulled some strings. I'm also not the one who has a new car for every season. And since I'm not throwing myself at every guy, that automatically means I'm the Virgin Mother, right? But then, if I actually were in an intimate relationship right now, I'd be a slut. Wow, a girl just can't win with you, can she?" I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I don't even know why I'm bothering with this. We're not teenagers anymore. But ever since high school, we've clashed horribly whenever we coerce. Maybe it's my emotional state right now, but something inside me won't let him win.

He seems to ignore my jabs at his college acceptance, and jumps on the thing he thinks will irritate me the most.

"Wait a minute…just what are you implying, Mary? Or should I say, Mary Magdalene? I may have to change my beloved name for you permanently. Are you saying what I think you're saying?" His fake innocence is nauseating.

This induces another eye-roll. "Yeah, like I'd relay my sex life, or lack thereof, to you of all people."

"You don't have to say anything. I can see it all now. Roses, candlelight--" he pauses for a moment to turn his head obnoxiously towards my face, before continuing in a dramatic, romantic tone, "Champagne. Mood music playing softly in the background. Tell me, Rory, did he hold you afterwards?"

That's it. Tears form behind my eyes, and I hate him for it. Hate him. My voice rising, I spit,

"You know, what, Tristan? As vile as you are, I would think even you'd be able to understand when you've gone too far. As a matter of fact, I was recently in a relationship, but whether or not involved sex is none of your business. And it's over now, but I would really appreciate if you didn't use it as a pawn in our little game. Can you agree to that, or do I have to write down so you can comprehend it better?" 

He's noticed my eyes are watery, I can tell. His gaze is fixed on the block windows behind us as he says,

"Yeah, alright, fine. Whatever."

I sigh, emotionally drained. "Thank you. God."

There is a beyond awkward silence between us as I pick at the fabric on the couch, and he suddenly becomes fascinated by one of the paintings on the wall. To say I'm surprised is an understatement when he says,

"You know, I really didn't…didn't mean to make you cry. It was just—I was angry, and it came out before I knew what I was saying. So, that really wasn't my intent."

I look over at him. His eyes are full of something I've never seen before—remorse. There's also a sadness tinting the sparkling blue that I didn't notice at first. I get the feeling it's never been there previously. I decide he is sincere.

"Don't worry about it", I say, "I really wasn't crying over you anyway. Do you think I'd waste my tears on a cretin like you?" I jab, sadly. 

He half-smiles with the same sort of sadness, suddenly understanding. 

"Was it the…relationship you mentioned?" he's extremely hesitant, obviously not wanting to pry (for once), or set me off again. 

"Give him a prize, Johnny!  Yeah, that was it," I explain tiredly. I'm exhausted. The hurt over Steve is weighing me down, not to mention the emotional energy wasted on swapping insults with him.

"For what it's worth, and I realize it's about nothing to you, but…I'm sorry. I know you'd never thought words like this would ever come out of my mouth, but I was just in a situation like that myself, so, I understand how you feel." He says with slight reluctance, yet I hear true compassion I his voice. Wow. He's really starting to scare me.

I manage to keep my half-hearted laugh down. "Seriously? You, Tristan DuGrey, womanizer of the East Coast, were in an honest-to-God relationship. Wonders never cease."

"Hey!" he suddenly gets defensive, "I was never exactly a womanizer. They came to me. Who was I to stop it?" Then he sees my look.

"Oh, fine. Yes, Charisse was my first real relationship, alright? I wanted to marry her. I wanted---I wanted to take care of her, I guess. And she dumped me. No, not only that, she cheated on me, with a guy named Brice. Who the hell names their kid Brice?"

What he doesn't realize is that while he's been rambling on, I'm in tears. Again. Because one night, very late, Steve had said almost the exact same thing to me.   

"Do you really think that there's one person out there, for everyone? Like, how everyone says it's "predestined" and all that? Do you believe it?" I asked him as we lay on my bed in the dorm.  We really had to get dressed soon, otherwise Bailey, already testy because she hates her boss at the bookstore where she works, would barge in, and start yelling that I was the one who instated the "No Sex in The Dorm" rule, and now here I was breaking it. 

"I don't know, honestly," He replied, yawning. "But sometimes…it's silly, but I think it may be you. I mean, I've never been with somebody like you. There's times when I just think—this is it, you know? I get this feeling that—I could see myself with you for the rest of my life.  I want to be able to take care of you. It's sappy, I know," he shook his head a little, as if to clear away the "sappiness" of his words. 

I smiled lazily. 

"That's not sappy!" And then, for some reason, I started to laugh, overcome with happiness. His expression was one of mock hurt.

"Hey! You think that's funny?" he joked. I was still laughing.

"No! No, seriously, it's not sappy at all. It's really sweet," I confessed sincerely, before another fit of giggles overcame me. This time, he began to laugh as well. 

The memory washes over me in a flood, before I can stop it. Too bad that turned out to be a load of crap. Too bad he doesn't love me anymore. Too bad he—

That's when my tears go from "welling" to actually falling, slowly drifting down my face as if in mourning. Tristan, meanwhile, is still going on about Charisse, or whatever her name is.

"…Thought she felt the same way, you know? I thought it was real. Apparently, I was wrong." He sighs, finishing. Then suddenly, he sees me again. He looks slightly taken aback.

"Oh, God, what did I say now? Oh jeez. I'm sorry, really, I—"

"No, no, you didn't say anything", I manage to say despite my state, "It's just…my ex. I keep thinking about him. And I really shouldn't be at this point. I just feel so…"

"Pathetic?" he finishes for me.

"Exactly! How did you…?" I search his face for an answer.

"Like I said—I've been there. Recently," he says softly.

Another silence falls. I wipe away the tears as best I can. 

He tries, bumbling, to break it. 

"Listen, I know you probably feel like shit now, but it will get better…I mean, it's got to right? That's the thing that keeps me going. You'll be fine, I'll be fine—" He puts an extremely cautious hand on my shoulder, as a new tear falls. I take little notice of it.

Until it begins to move. Down my bare arm, slowly. 

"We'll both be…just fine…" Tristan trails off. 

His hand continues to slide up my arm, and then back again. It slowly becomes much more than an attempted friendly gesture. Up, back. I look up at him. His eyes are different again. That tint is back, and there is something in them I can feel, because I somehow feel the same thing. Need. His hand feels good. Oh Jesus, did I just think that? What's going on? I just haven't felt this in so long. Too long, it seems like. My body relaxes a little. Up, back. 

My eyes close involuntarily.

Up, back.

And then he's kissing me.   
  


  
  


  
  


   
  



	2. Nobody To Love

_Narcissus_

**Author**: SweetThing 

**Chapter**: 2 "Nobody To Love" 

**Disclaimer**: [Reineer Wolfcastle voice]"My rights! The Constitution does nothing!" [/Reineer Wolfcastle voice] Heh. Seriously, folks, I don't own anything. The chapter title and lyrics are from "Harder To Breathe", off of Maroon 5's CD, _Songs About Jane. _

**Author's Note**: Thank you so much for all of your reviews! I love you guys. Honestly, I could not have imagined that this would get such a wonderful response. I'm ecstatic that you're all enjoying it. :-D Oh, quick note: this chapter is, as promised, in Tristan's POV. 

**Dedications**: Angeleyez, my fabulous beta who told me this didn't suck (hee!) and all my reviewers: Roxy, Nate, Surya, klm11a, gilmorechick, Jamie, darasun, blurred, LizDarcy, klara, Michelle, Kate, LandonLover, coincidence casualty, and Jazz.   
  
_How dare you say that my behavior is unacceptable/So condescending unnecessarily critical…/You drain me dry and make me wonder why I'm even here/This double vision I was seeing is finally clear/You want to stay but you know very well I want you gone… _

  
How the hell did I get here? 

Those are the words echoing through my head as the world as I know it dissolves, and I realize exactly what I'm doing. 

I am kissing Rory Gilmore. 

Rory Gilmore, a person whom I can't stand, who unnerves me unlike anyone else, is letting me kiss her. My hand had moved, almost on its own, from her shoulder to her arm, and before my brain could kick in, (better late than never, as always), I let myself get too close. My hormones took over, and I became intoxicated by the feel of her skin. For some reason, it didn't matter that I had made her unhappiness and irritation my goal for almost three years. It had just been so long…so lonely without Charisse, despite my bitterness over our breakup. Maybe anyone would have sufficed to fill this void I have, both physically and emotionally. 

But with Rory, it wasn't that she was just a warm body. She was in my position. We, for the first time since we met, understand each other. We know exactly what the other one wants. Needs. 

And now, here I am, my mouth lingering on hers, terrified that at any moment, she'll get violent on my ass. 

She doesn't. I let my mouth slowly move over hers, forgetting how good this used to feel. My memory welcomes it. I get caught up in the warmth, the softness of her lips, and hardly notice when she returns the gesture. 

All of a sudden, something is set off. Having confirmed the other's willingness, we seem to succumb to something, a feeling that started the minute I touched her. I pull her closer, melding her into me, as our bodies relax and our mouths begin an ongoing war, surrendering to the yearning we have that only the other truly knows about. I deepen the kiss with practiced skill, and she accepts flawlessly, as our lips continue to crash together, almost frantically, showing the vulnerability we refused to earlier. It's as if we've been walking in the Sahara. We're parched. 

We part for air in intervals, barely meeting eyes. My head is practically spinning; not believing that what's going on is actually going on, as my hands move lower, to her hips. She responds to this at first, a faint noise forming in the back of her throat, until she seems to snap back into reality. 

She pulls away from me with wide eyes, both of us breathing heavily. I turn back away from her, trying to process my thoughts, which minutes ago were in places way beyond kissing. This both shocks and annoys me, as I'm sure Rory felt the physical signs of them. 

We sit there, both more than a little uncomfortable. All I want to do is leave, and I'm sure she feels the same way. But for some reason, it becomes an unspoken contest of who has the balls to stay there the longest. The feeling in the air returns from its heated, fervent essence, back to a stone cold silence. 

Finally, I decide to give. It really isn't it my nature to give up this easily, but somebody has to say something. I clear my throat. 

"Look, I know that---" 

But I am interrupted. We both look behind us, towards the voice. 

"Rory! There you are. I had a feeling you were in the house somewhere," says Richard Gilmore. 

Rory looks extremely embarrassed. 

"Yeah. Sorry Grandpa, I really didn't mean to---" 

"Nonsense", he cuts in, smiling, "I honestly don't blame you. If I were your age, I'd probably be doing the same thing. These functions are always more fun for the, shall we say, wiser generation, whether young people are in attendance or not." He then notices me. I turn awkwardly and give him a half smile. 

"And see! What did I tell you? You managed to find an old friend," he turns to me, "Hello, Tristan. How is your grandfather, young man? We haven't spoken since our round of golf last weekend." 

At this point, Rory can't help giving me her patented 'See? I _told _you!' smirk. I ignore it and reply, 

"Pleasure to see you again, sir. My grandfather's doing just fine, thank you. He and my grandmother would've been here tonight, but she wasn't feeling well." 

He looks mildly concerned. "Oh, that's too bad. Tell Janlen I said hello, and send my wishes of good health to your grandmother." He smiles affably. 

"Now then, Rory, I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's getting late. Your grandmother insists on us leaving", he says, getting back to business. 

"Of course, Grandpa. I have stuff to do tomorrow anyway. You know how seriously Lorelai takes our shopping trips," Rory responds, finding her shoes and getting up to leave. 

Richard chuckles. "Do I ever. All set then?" 

"Yeah. All set," she echoes, then turns to me. 

"Goodbye, Tristan", she manages to get out, her face uncomfortable. She's trying to pretend that our little tryst just now didn't happen; I can hear it in her voice. 

"Yes, goodbye Tristan. It was nice seeing you again," her grandfather says as they head towards the den's door. 

Just as she's about to get out of my viewpoint of where I'm sitting, she looks at me meaningfully, urgently almost. She says nothing, but her expression clearly states, "Not a word, to anyone". As she exits after Richard, I hear him say, suddenly, 

"Why Rory, you look flushed! Were you over-heated down there? James really needs to get this place proper air-conditioning." 

"Oh. Yes, that must have been it…" At this point, they are out of earshot, so I never hear the rest of the conversation. 

I chuckle in spite of myself at Mr. Gilmore's comment. Over-heated indeed. I then realize why I'm chuckling. I groan and put my head in my hands. This was definitely not the evening I was expecting when my Aunt Miriam and Uncle John dragged me to this party against my will. But of course, _they_ didn't know that. I sigh and decide to head back outside. Maybe there will be more drunk people to entertain me. 

When I return outside, it seems like the gathering is dying down significantly. People are saying their goodbyes, the wine bottles and plates empty and crowding the tables. I'm ready to leave myself. I look and finally spot my aunt and uncle, chatting and laughing with the Monroe's, I think the other couple is. I have the annoying attribute of recognizing almost everyone in my parent's social circle, having seen them on various occasions almost my whole life. 

I walk up to them and try to politely make my presence known. I clear my throat. 

"Excuse me, I…" 

My uncle immediately sees me. "Tristan! There you are. We've been looking for you", he looks stern for a moment. 

"Sorry, Uncle John." 

"Oh, don't give it a second thought. We assumed you were off somewhere mingling anyhow. Have you been having fun, at least?" he laughs slightly. I guess he's not the only one who had some of that god-awful wine. 

I swallow, hard. My mind keeps going back to the earlier events in the den. 

"Yes, I guess you could say that." It's the best answer I can give at this point. 

"Happy to hear that, my boy. Now, are you ready to leave then?" 

"Of course. I'll get my car and meet you two back at the house." 

"Superb. We'll be along soon," John replies. They're staying at my parent's house for the weekend. 

"Alright then." I say my goodbyes to the Monroe's and gratefully walk to where my car is parked. 

* 

Almost a week after the DeWitt's party, what happened between Rory and I still keeps coming back into my mind, no matter how hard I try to get it out. It sneaks up on me when I least expect it, and I'm forced to analyze, like some neurotic head-case, why it happened, how it happened, etc, etc. 

I've wondered whether it was the one and a half glasses of alcohol I had in me, my vulnerable state, both, or neither. I've pondered why Rory, even being upset about a recent break-up, didn't slap me across the face or worse when I kissed her. But most of all, I can't help asking the most mind-numbing question of all: Why the hell did it feel so good? Sure, kissing is nice, and we obviously both needed someone, but why didn't it repulse me? And, why can't I just let it go as one-time thing? I've loathed this girl for as long as I've known her, and yet when I came into physical contact with her, I felt like she was the only one who could take this ache I have away. 

Charisse frequently being in my thoughts isn't helping, either. Oh God. Charisse. The woman I saw myself with forever. The only one who I had truly felt I loved. The bitch that went behind my back with a guy who has possibly the ugliest name in existence. I sigh bitterly. Then slowly, memories of her take over. 

I had met her, surprisingly, through my parents. When I had gotten home for the summer at the end of my freshman year at Columbia, I was promptly forced into going to a party at one of their friend's (I want to say it was the Montgomery's) houses. I had dated on and off at that point, never anything serious. I was like any typical college guy: I wanted to get laid. Oh who am I kidding; I still feel that way now. I'm a horrible stereotype, I know. 

So it's safe to say that at the time, I wasn't really looking for a long-term relationship. Throughout the party, an elegant charity auction for some foundation or other, I was introduced to more people than I could count. It was growing increasingly boring. 

Until I met her. My father pulled me aside, at one point, and wanted me to meet a new colleague of his whom he had just hired to work for him at the firm. 

"No offense, dad, but if I'm introduced to one more person, I think my head may explode. They're all blurring into one, gigantic mass of Elizabeth's and George William the Firsts and pretentious surnames," I complained, although rather good-naturedly, in my defense. 

"Oh please, son. You can meet one more person; it's not going to kill you. And you _will_ do it politely. Do you understand me?" His voice was growing increasingly menacing. 

"Yeah, yeah, alright." I really didn't feel like dealing with Authoritarian Dad tonight. 

"Good. Ah, here we are," he replied as we approached a middle-aged man, who looked about his age. His golden brown hair was thinning ever so slightly, combed over to quell suspicions of baldness. I smirked. 

"Charles! There you are," my father exclaimed merrily, "I'm so happy you decided to attend with us this evening." 

"Oh, how could I pass up such an invitation from the Montgomery's? You've all been so kind to us since we moved here," he responded. His manner was truly genuine and grateful, as if he was speaking to some higher power rather than his equal. 

Ah. New money, then, I thought. I briefly wondered when I had turned into such a snob. I shook the earlier thought away. 

"Of course, of course. Don't mention it," my father disregarded his appreciation away with a flick of his wrist. He had such a way with people. It was like he had been born to be a socialite, just like the ones you see in the movies. Too bad he also participated in the clichéd wealthy-man activities, i.e. cheating on my mother. 

Charles had a lot to learn. 

The thought practically made bile rise in my throat, so I turned my full attention to this new acquaintance. 

"Tristan," my father said, "This is Charles Whittaker, my newest partner at the firm. You wouldn't have found a better attorney in all of Missouri, I assure you. Charles, this is my son, Tristan." 

"Nice to meet you, sir," I said naturally, making sure I was courteous enough for my father's liking, "But I'm curious. How is it that I don't remember hearing about you? I'm not doubting my father by any means, but—" 

Mr. Whittaker interjected. 

"It's perfectly alright", he reassured me, "In Missouri, I did mostly pro-bono cases. But then my wife got laid off of her job, and I decided to start charging, and cut down on the number of unrecompensed cases I would see. It was hard to compromise my beliefs, but we had to think of the children and our future, you see. Then, a few months ago, Carolyn's mother had a stroke, so we decided to move here to be closer to her during the recovery, and just in general. She was born and raised here, in Middletown originally." 

I nodded, absorbing the information. 

"Well, here's to hoping you feel right at home in Hartford," I said, raising my glass of champagne in his direction jovially. 

"Tristan, really! Not only are you disobeying a federal law, you're embarrassing yourself in front of Mr. Whittaker! Apologize," my father demanded. Mr. Whittaker seemed to be struggling to keep a straight face. 

"Yes, sir. Mr. Whittaker, I'm sorry. I was rude, and I shouldn't have made you feel uncomfortable." I complied, hating to have to call my father "sir" in order to pacify him. 

"That's quite alright, Tristan. I remember what it was like to be young…" he trailed off, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "Which reminds me!" He suddenly exclaimed, "I'd like you both to meet someone", he looked around and then seemed to spot whoever it was he had been looking for, "Charisse! Darling, would come over here for a moment?" 

That was the moment my life changed, never to be the same again. A beautiful girl with long, lush hair the same color as Mr. Whittaker's, and stunning blue-green eyes, walked right over to us. I was stupefied, to say the least. 

"Edward, Tristan, I'd like you to meet my eldest daughter, Charisse. She'll be a sophomore at Princeton in the fall. Charisse, this is Mr. DuGrey, my new partner, and his son, Tristan." 

She smiled gracefully. 

"Nice to meet you both," she said, holding out her hand to both of us. I watched with the wonder of a pubescent teenage boy as she shook my father's hand politely. 

But I was temporarily woken from my reverie as I then saw my father look at her appreciatively, like she was a stone on one of those ridiculous pieces of jewelry he bought for my mom. His eyes were practically gleaming. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear." 

I felt ill. 

But the dream-like feeling then took over again as she moved on to me. The minute I felt my hand touch hers, I was gone. 

"Nice to, uh, meet you too," I managed to reply, my usual charm faltering for one of the first times in my life. 

Charisse smiled again, this time there was laughter behind it. 

Her father spoke up. "You know, you two are about the same age. You should chat for a little while. I bet you have a lot in common," he winked at me. 

Embarrassed as I was, it was a sheer miracle that I was able to ask, "Shall we?" and when she agreed, lead her outside, where it was quieter. 

We both sat on the porch steps, in silence, until Charisse finally broke it. 

"So, my father tells me you attend Columbia?" she asked. 

"Yep. He tells you right", I replied, smiling a little, "I didn't think I would get in, but I guess miracles happen, right?" 

She looked relieved. "Tell me about it! I was in shock when I got the letter from Princeton. I was so nervous about my SATs I almost cheated on them!" 

I looked at her in surprise. "Really? You seem like a smart girl. I wouldn't think you're the---" 

"Type?" she finished for me, "Yeah, I know. But you know, desperate times call for desperate measures, cheesy as it sounds. One of my friends claimed she had a copy of the answers, and wanted to know if we wanted them. I ended up saying no, and she ended up getting expelled from our high school. I guess everything works out." She ended her story thoughtfully, and shrugged. 

I chuckled. "I guess so." 

"Yeah. Plus, didn't you ever want to be, you know, the Bad Seed? To have one of those typical teenage rebellions those drama shows on TV always center around? I don't know, it sounds stupid, but when I was that age, I was obsessed with taking more risks. The only thing I ended up doing was getting my cartilage pierced my sophomore year of high school!" She was laughing now, obviously recalling the memory. 

Her laugh was infectious. In no time, I was joining her. 

"Wow", I joked, "I don't know if I can be associated with someone as wild as you. My parents might disapprove!" 

"I know, I know!" She said, calming down a bit, "It gets worse. I actually ended up taking out the earring! I felt so guilty already because I'd gone behind my parent's back and had my older cousin take me. I think I went two days before I caved." 

My laughter subsided. "Well, at least you tried it, right?" 

Charisse stretched her legs out from the steps and yawned. "True. I've come to notice that there are a lot of 'at leasts' in life, you know? We just have to be more grateful for them." 

I sat there in awe. How could a person like this actually exist? She was beautiful to the point of exhaustion, and had a good head on her shoulders to boot. I had never met someone like her. Ever. She made me really think about things in a way I never had before, and already was leaving an impression on me. 

So what did I do? 

I kissed her. I had no words in me to dictate what I wanted to express to her, so being Tristan DuGrey, I went right for the physical. I still cringe now, looking back on it, but thankfully, she responded. 

We kissed for moment before she pulled back, shyly. 

There was a slight silence before Charisse finally said, 

"Well. You know, I can honestly say, Tristan, I have never kissed a guy I just met", there was a hint of a smile forming on her face. 

"Yeah, but hey, at least I didn't assault you or try to get into your pants," I replied, teasing her. 

At that point, she started laughing again. Hard. 

"You jerk!" she said, "Throwing my own words back at me! What am I going to do with you?" Her eyes sparked, almost glowing. 

I shrugged. It was so easy to be myself around her. 

"That's up to you, I suppose," I responded. 

Charisse rolled her eyes. "C'mon. We should be getting back to the party in there anyway", she sensed my reluctance and tried again. "Let's go, I'll 'mingle' with you. We can pretend we're actually interested in what those people are saying." 

I offered her my hand and pulled her up. 

"Shall we?" I questioned for the second time that night. 

"Yes, dear, I do believe we shall," she answered with mock elegance. 

I grinned and followed her to the door. 

From that point on, we became inseparable. Whether I was hanging around at home or at yet another parentally forced shindig, Charisse was almost always with me. I got to know her family, and I loved them as well. They were the kind of people I had always wanted as relatives, and I was practically their surrogate son after a while. I fit right in. 

After we had been dating for about nine months (my longest relationship, for the record), and had survived the semi-long distance part of being together, I began stopping at jewelry store windows, just for the hell of it, and seeing what kind of a ring I would buy for Charisse if the day ever came when I would propose. It was more of a hypothetical dream of mine, but I couldn't help it. I loved her. 

And then, about two weeks ago, all of that came crashing down. I discovered that the person I cared about the most had been cheating on me. The fact that I hadn't noticed or even picked up on any signs that she seemed detached, absent-minded, or anything like that wasn't the worst part. 

The worst part was that I caught them. 

I had gone over to Charisse's house that weekend to surprise her and take her out because the class I was supposed to have had been canceled that day. It was raining, but I didn't falter. I drove almost four hours in a fucking thunderstorm, and finally, I reached her front doorstep. I knocked three times. 

I rang the bell, momentarily forgetting that it was broken. 

Then I suddenly remembered: I had my own _key_. I cursed myself silently. _Jesus,_ _what is with me?_ I thought. I turned the lock and entered the modest-looking yet lavish house her parents owned. I looked around. I saw no sign of anyone yet. 

"Hello? Mr. Whittaker? Charisse? Baby, are in you here?" 

That's when I heard the shower running. 

_Oh, so_ that's _why she's not answering,_ I thought with relief. 

I headed towards the bathroom door, more than familiar with the house. I figured I'd poke my head in, tell Charisse I was there, and then wait for her to get dressed. It's not like I hadn't seen her naked. I smirked in spite of myself. 

I opened the door. Steam was billowing up from the showerhead, covering the mirror with a frost-like fog. The water drummed against the wall, drowning out all noise, pounding, pounding on the stall. 

And the two bodies that inhabited it. 

"Charisse, I—" 

That's when I saw him. I froze with rage. My chest felt like someone had ripped it open for an autopsy, and started stabbing it with a scalpel. 

I stormed out of the bathroom and out of the house, my mind whirling, my stomach churning at what I had just seen. I was in total shock. How could she have done this to me? For how long? How could I not have sensed that something wasn't right? 

I got in my car and drove for hours, not thinking, not feeling. I couldn't let myself. The pain was too much. As I got home that night, one final thought floated across my mind, light and unanalyzed. 

_Oh, so_ that's _why she didn't hear me_. 

The day after that, I confronted Charisse, and she admitted that she had been seeing the bastard (I prefer to call him that instead of his proper name, which I feel is worse than the term "bastard") for almost a month now, but she hadn't wanted to tell me, because a part of her thought that maybe we could work it out, and that she would stop seeing Bastard. 

"I know it doesn't help, but I am sorry, Tristan", she said, her voice full of sympathy. It made me sick. 

"You're right. It doesn't help. But, just humor me here: did you ever really love me at all?" I asked. 

She looked slightly grim. "I did. But Brice…he makes me feel so…alive, you know? He inspires me", she saw my look, "Oh God. I'm sorry. I know you didn't need to hear that. I did love you though, Tristan. I just don't think I felt the same way about you that you did about me. I just want you to be happy." 

I almost laughed. She was already putting my feelings for her in past tense. I suddenly hated her. Still, I mustered up enough dignity to reply, 

"Well, I want you to be happy, too. I just wish…" 

Charisse put her hand over mine at the table we were sitting at. 

"I know." 

And now, almost two weeks later, here I am, still thinking about her like some super-sensitive guy who cries at movies. I sigh heavily. I rise from the chair in my father's study I've been sitting in. I look at the clock. Jesus. It's been almost an hour since I came in here. And I have to work tomorrow. Ugh. I've taken a job as an intern at my father's law firm, to make him happy, and now, every weekday from eight to three, I'm forced to get up during my summer break, and cater to him and his partner's every whim. Add some paper work and case study, and I have The Job From Hell! _Office Space_ has nothing on me. 

I groan and stretch, and head down the stairs of the deserted DuGrey mansion. My parents are at an auction, and will most likely be pouring themselves into bed around five a.m. I "had a headache" and saw them off, promptly proceeding to loaf around the house the rest of the day. I walk towards the kitchen. I'm starving. 

Fuck. There it is again! What the hell is wrong with me? Thoughts of that night in the den keep invading my mind, without warning, and I can't get the picture of Rory's tear-stained, needing face out of my head. I slam the counter with my fist in frustration. 

Just then, the doorbell rings. 

I look up in surprise. Who would come over here now? I'm certainly not expecting anyone. Whatever. I stride to the ornate oak door and pull it open. 

And standing there in front of me is Rory Gilmore. My mouth opens in surprise. 

"Uh, wow, what are you—" 

She cuts me off promptly, looking somewhat determined despite her nauseous expression. 

"Don't say anything. Yet. I have to tell you all this before I forget, or lose all desire to once I talk to you for too long. I'm not sure why I came here tonight, I know I could've called but I didn't have your number, and I thought about calling my grandparents for it but I then I realized that they would probably be asleep already, but I really needed to talk to you for possibly the first time in my life, so I was forced to come over here", she pauses for breath. 

I try to cut in, "Well, yeah, but what about the yellow pages? I mean, those are—" 

But Rory will have none of it. "It didn't cross my mind, ok? Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I'm quite sure you remember our little…uh, let's call it an encounter, in the DeWitt's family room last week", I nod. I'm almost afraid to say anything. 

"Well, I hope you know that I would like nothing more than to forget about it, write it off as a one-time moment of weakness, and move on. But the thing is, not only have I been having trouble moving on lately, I just… I just…" she falters. I coax her to continue slightly with my eyes. Maybe I'm not insane, after all. 

"I just keep thinking about it, ok? Ugh! God! I don't what it was or even what it is, but my mind keeps going back to it. It won't go away! It's like this really bad song that you can't get out of your head, and the more I try to make it stop the louder it is, and I can't figure out why! You, honestly, make my skin crawl, Tristan. All through high school and even last week, you irritated and made me want scream at you or rip out your lungs, or…I don't know, something violent. Very, very violent. I used to tell people who didn't know you that you were the one person in my life that I truly hated. From the depths of being, the bottom of my heart. And yet, when—what happened at the Dewitt's--- err, happened…it didn't make me sick. I wasn't angry at you. I wanted to be so much, but I wasn't. I'm going to kill myself for saying this next thing because you're probably going to gloat about it to all of your equally wealthy friends for years to come, but it actually felt…well, it didn't feel disgusting. It kind of felt---" 

"Good?" I steal the word from her with surprising timing. 

She looks at me with frustration and relief. "Yes! And I can't even fathom why it would because as I've stated before, I have not disliked anybody more than you throughout my whole life, if there was a fire and I had to save either you or my books, it would be a toss-up! I mean, sure I was vulnerable, we both were, but I never thought I'd end up being 'comforted', and that's said with huge air-quotes, by _you_!" She looks at me with extreme disdain. I seethe. That's all it takes. 

"Oh please, you think you're so high-and-mighty? You're not the only one who wanted to be mad and disgusted! This won't get out of my head either, and it's not a fucking picnic, I'll tell you that right now. I have not met anyone who rubs me the wrong way as much as you did and still do, and yet when I was kissing you, the last thing I wanted to do was stop! And I hate that I felt that way, and I hate that it felt like I needed not just any random woman, but you, specifically, to make me feel like that! It sucks, and—" 

She interrupts me suddenly. "Oh God." 

Her eyes meet mine, slightly terrified. "I thought that was just me." 

I sigh, tired, and lean against the doorframe. "Well, you thought wrong, apparently." 

Rory seems to tremble a little. 

"What the hell are we supposed to do now?" Her eyes are shining with something I can't quite read. Yet I recognize it for some reason. 

Then, something falls into place. The sharp, heated feeling from the night of the party returns, hitting me full force. I can sense it taking over as I move closer to her, and say, 

"That depends…on what you want to do", my voice is growing lower, suggestiveness flowing from my tone like the river Jordan. What the fuck _is_ this? 

I continue, inches away from her mouth. "Because, you know...I'm totally open to suggestion. And experimentation." 

Her breathing is becoming irregular as she tries to avoid my mouth. She swallows. 

"God, you're a prick," she says ardently. Her eyelashes start to flutter lazily. 

Those are the last words out of her mouth as we practically lunge at each other, frantically trying to close the space between us. Our mouths connect and detach, connect and detach, too many times to count. She almost knocks me over as I stumble into the house, trying to move backwards without the benefit of sight. Rory finally just gives up and hops slightly, so that her legs are around my waist. My lips move to her neck. Hands are everywhere as we stumble towards the bedroom. 

Each now having a greater appreciation for the excuse, "It must have been the humidity." 

  
_When it gets cold outside and you got nobody to love/You'll understand what I mean when I say, there's no way we're gonna give up…/Is there anyone out there, cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe…_


	3. Release Yourself

_Narcissus_

**Author**: SweetThing 

**Chapter**: 3 "Release Yourself" 

**Disclaimer**: Nothing's mine. There, I said it. *sob* Why are you doing this to me? lol. Anyway, the chapter title and lyrics are from "Sexuality" by K.D. Lang, off of her CD, _All You Can Eat_. 

**Author's Note**: I love you all! No really, thanks to everyone for your wonderful comments. I couldn't be more flattered. J Oh, and yes, this is in Rory's POV. 

**Dedications**: Angeleyez, my always-wonderful beta who rocks, and everybody who reviewed: Jazz, LandonLover, LizDarcy, Miya, Priya, mandie, Siaram, chevie Jane, coincidence casualty, Jamie, kay, Jewls13, PixiePunk, imsagirl05, trory-goddess, Roxy, klm111a, blurred, bella, Intuition, and Green Eve. Finally, the lovely people on the Trory Thread. 

  
_Come on come on/kiss away the ones who say/the lust you feel is wrong…/how bad could it be/if you should lose yourself in me/now how bad could it be?_

Caw! Caw! 

That's the sound I hear as I frown and shift slightly under the cotton sheets. 

Caw! Caw! 

Argh! Damn crows. Why are they so obnoxiously loud? I need sleep, and it can't be earlier than six a.m. out there. Can't they see I'm busy being post-coital? I move closer to the strong frame in the bed beside me. I sigh faintly. Much better. Now if those freaking crows would just shut the hell up maybe I could--- 

Oh my God. 

I shirk back from the aforementioned frame in horror. 

That's right. I'm post-coital! With…with…ugh, I can't even say it! How? When? Why? Was I drunk? Was I on something? My half-asleep stupor raises more than a few questions. Until the previous night comes back to me. 

It plays out as a linked chain of rambling, insults, and finally, The Sex. The infamous event that will be forever capitalized in my mind, said with a shudder, thought of with a grimace. I groan, half inwardly. I look over at my fellow offender. 

Tristan is sleeping, rather peacefully, next to me in the ridiculously over-sized bed that was the grounds for our throwing off of the earth's orbit last night. I groan again. My mind wanders over the to the well, intercourse of last night, naturally when recalling events in chronological order. A place where I truly don't want to go. It starts and stalls there, trying to get me to analyze, rationalize, finalize in my head the things that were done. But I won't have it. This is too much. 

I put my head in my hands tiredly. The comforter suddenly falls from my shoulders a little, and I remember that I am naked. 

Tristan DuGrey saw me naked. 

Oh Lord! I don't believe this. Just then, he lets out a snore. Ugh. It's like he could tell the sheet had fallen. Even in his sleep, he's a dick. I quickly and quietly rise from the bed and start dressing. Undies, bra (why oh why did I have to be wearing black underwear?), jeans, and T-shirt. After I am fully clothed, I sit on the edge of the bed, having no idea what to do next. 

I could leave. Of course, that would be taking the easy way out, but I somehow feel that with last night's happenings, I defied all logic. Then again, Tristan will probably find me sooner or later, and I'll be forced to talk about it. Or, I could stay. Maybe we should just get it over with. 

All of a sudden, he stirs. His eyes open slightly, and he frowns, his voice thick with sleep. 

"What the hell is---Rory? What are you doing here---oh," he half moans, "Oh, Jesus, that's right. We---" he pauses in place of saying the actual phrase, gesturing with his hands, "Didn't we?" 

I look at him and nod, my expression grim. "You got it." 

He stretches and rubs his eyes, looking how I did moments before. 

"I almost thought it was some kind of bad dream. You know, the ones that seem real?" 

I glare at him. "Obviously that was your deluded sub-conscious. Like it or not, we willingly engaged in sexual relations last night." I wanted to be the cool, calm one in this scenario. The strong one who tells it like it is. But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I am disgusted and give up. 

"Oh my God, I can't believe I just said that. What the hell is wrong with us?" 

He sits up. "Hey, don't ask me. You're the one who looked at me all, 'What are we going to do now, Tristan?' I'm so scared, comfort me!' I couldn't help but respond to instinct!" 

"Oh, please. So this is my fault? You're just a quivering mass of hormones that can't help yourself? Do not blame me for you obviously misinterpreting my expression. I was not trying to get you to fuck me!" 

He sneers. "Ooh, Rory, I'm surprised at you. We can't have the debutant saying naughty words!" 

"How old are we, Tristan?" 

He waves off my response. "Fine, you know what, I admit it. I did take your expression as a sign to kiss you. But why did you kiss me back, after insulting me no less?" 

I almost flush, embarrassed. The truth is I have no reasonable explanation. I decide there's only one thing to do. 

"Then why did _you_ drag me towards the bedroom, assuming I wanted to sleep with you?" 

Throw his own words back at him. 

"Why did _you_ let your self be brought into this bedroom, never saying a word or giving any signs that you wanted to stop?" 

I am at the boiling point. Somebody's going to win, and it's not going to be Tristan. 

"Well, why did you not only never stop, but when I asked if we should really be doing this, and I did ask, by the way, you replied, I believe, 'Maybe not'…followed by 'Oh, screw it!'" 

He rises from the bed, revealing his plaid boxers (thank God for small favors), and moves closer to me. I stiffen. 

"I am not the one", he hisses, speaking in a slow, almost menacing tone, _"Who ripped my shirt!" _

I gasp. "What? I did not _rip_ your shirt! It's not my fault it wouldn't come off. It was a small tear!" 

I then realize what I have just given away. I falter. Maybe I should just give this up. But then, something comes back to me. 

I am once again defiant and look him straight in the eye. 

"Besides," I say, "At that point, you had already gotten my _bra unhooked_!" 

His mouth opens, then closes again. At this point, we are both breathing heavily, seething with annoyance (well, more hatred on my part). I wait. Wait for him to throw something equally true and earth-shattering right back at me, the smirk that never leaves his face gleaming. I look at him, my expression clearly stating that I have won. I've got him. 

"Well, you—I—that's---," Tristan stutters, his earlier competitive, confident air crumbling before us. Suddenly, our eyes lock. He inches towards me, so slow I almost don't notice. My breathing becomes labored again. The atmosphere in the large, spacious bedroom becomes heated and ireful once more, reminiscent of last night. 

"Aw, hell", he says, and pulls me towards him. Part of me wants to slap him, but this impassioned feel to the air surrounds me. I give in. We collapse onto the unmade bed, lips warring, bodies clashing, hands fumbling everywhere, trying to get as much contact with the other as possible. The need is back, full-force. As we get closer and closer to the "point of no return", I have one final, rational thought. 

_So much for me getting dressed._

* 

Some time later, we lay on the bed, for the second time that day. I stare at the ceiling, holding the bold, diamond-patterned comforter rather tightly around my shoulders. I sneak a glance at Tristan, in spite of myself, to see if he's as confused as I am. 

Indeed he is. He seems to be fascinated, first with the ceiling, then with his hands. He looks almost everywhere except at me. I sigh. The question remains, hanging in the air above us. _What the hell are we supposed to do now?_ I prepare to speak. Like it or not, we have a problem here. It's time to deal with it. 

He beats me to it. "So…it seems to me, that something---something must be off here," Tristan says after clearing his throat, "Because, I can't stand you…for years, my personal goal was to irritate you as much as humanly possible…but now…every time we're in a close vicinity to each other, all I want to do is---" 

"You can stop right there," I interrupt him, annoyed. "As painful as it is for me to say this, I pretty much feel the same way. Minus the testosterone-laden dialect, of course. But that's not the point. The point is, why?" I shift toward him slightly. "Why, if we loathe each other as we both know we do, does this keep happening? What is it that motivates us towards each other like this, causing us to want to---" 

"Fuck the other's brains out?" he suggests. 

I roll my eyes. "You're charming, really. I'm serious here. I've thought about this, and I think I know why." 

"By all means," he says, facing me completely, "Enlighten me. Do you have visual aids for your presentation?" He chuckles a little. 

I give him a look that would have him gone in sixty seconds if looks could kill. "Fine. Why do _you_ think this keeps happening? I'm all ears." 

Tristan smirks, mocking hurt a little. "As a matter of fact, I do believe I know why this is going on," he sits up as importantly as one can when half naked under a comforter. "See, at the DeWitt's party, you mentioned having just broken up with someone. I, in turn, told you about Charisse, who just dumped me for a bastard with an ugly name." He pauses for a moment. 

I, at this point, have turned around and am propped up on my side, listening. For once, we are almost on the same page about something. I can't help it when I say, 

"Go on," trying to feign disinterest only a bit. 

He grins. "I do believe that's the first time you've ever said that when referencing me and conversation," he's highly amused at this point. 

"There's a first time for everything," I shoot back meaningfully, "Now, if you wouldn't mind getting to your point, please?" 

He obliges, thankfully. "Well, like I said, we have both recently been in rather, err, serious relationships, correct? Therefore, we are both hurting right now, both, shall we say, vulnerable. So naturally, both of us are going to want somebody, anybody, to fill this void that we're feeling, at least, that's how it's been with me." 

I nod. "Void" is an understatement. 

"Now normally, this would be a one-time thing, both us going in our separate directions, forgetting about it, blah blah blah…you get the idea," he continues. 

"Right," I break in, "But with the two of us, it's different. This is what I was trying to say." 

"Exactly, I was just getting to that. We are the almost exactly the same position. We both know how much it sucks to be in a relationship that you think will last forever, then getting screwed over. We're experiencing the same shitty emotions here. And in turn, we know almost exactly what the other one wants, besides the obvious, of course. Are you following me here?" He asks this like he's giving a game plan out to a football team. 

"Yes," I respond, actually anxious for him to continue. I don't believe this. 

"Alright. Well, since we're both in need of the same thing, and we understand the other's need for this---" 

I cut in abruptly, wanting to solve the puzzle before him, "That's why we end up sleeping together! This mutual understanding brought on, like, this sexual tension, and we end up having sex!" 

"And that's why the sex is so good!" Tristan exclaims. 

_"Exactly!" _

At this point, both of us seem to realize just what, exactly, we've said. We look at each other in shock. 

"Oh my God!" he cries. 

"I can't believe I just said sex with you was good!" I reply in humiliation. 

"Well, that's a given," he says breezily, then sees my icy stare, "B—but, that's not what's really important. How the hell can this be happening?" 

"I'm not saying this isn't bizarre," I respond, "But as I was trying to tell you, it's not the questions that are the point anymore. We've answered them already. Now, what remains is this: what are we going to do about this?" 

Tristan seems to ponder this for a moment. "Well, I can tell you what I want to do---or at least, part of me wants to do…but I fear for my external organs." 

I roll my eyes. "Stop fearing. It's an honest question though. What are we supposed to do? Forget about this and pretend it didn't happen?" 

"Well, it's a little late for that, don't you think? I mean, if we couldn't just forget about it after the DeWitt's party, I don't see how we can do it now. After we've had sex. Twice." He replies, adding the "twice" almost as an afterthought. 

I breathe out, defeated. "You're right, you're right. I was just…I don't know…reaching, I guess. You know?" 

Tristan nods. "I understand." 

The statement reverberates throughout the room, the double meaning shaking me to the core. We sit under the sheets in silence, the question I raised sitting between us, unmoving, thick in the air. Suddenly, he seems to have an epiphany. 

"Hey…wait a minute…" he straightens his posture, so he's sitting bolt upright. 

"Why should we even try to forget about all this?" He rises from the bed and starts slowly walking around the bedroom. 

I look at him a bit strangely. "Excuse me?" He's losing me here. 

"I mean, why should this even have to stop?" 

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" I ask, incredulous. 

"Perhaps," he says, "But hear me out here. We are two very wounded people at the moment, right? If we know exactly what we need, why don't we just give it to each other?" 

I raise an eyebrow. "You're saying we should keep on having sex?" 

"I know how it sounds," Tristan adds quickly, "But as shitty as we feel about our respective exes now, maybe this will help us get over them. We, for the first time in our lives, can relate to the other. People say they understand, but---" 

"They really don't," we say at the same time. I look at him, slightly creeped out. 

"So, in your theory, we would be like… sex buddies," I reply, breaking the weird silence that had fallen momentarily. 

"Not exactly," he goes on, "It would serve a greater purpose than just 'getting our fill'. We would be helping each other to heal, so to speak. Plus, we might just even feel better, not only about our failed relationships, but about ourselves". He lets out a breath, finished. He waits for my input. 

I mull over his words. Despite our less-than-unforgettable history, he makes a lot of sense. I don't believe I'm following and even agreeing with his logic when I finally say, 

"You do make a good point, as hard as that is for me to say. But, there's only one problem." 

Tristan raises his eyebrows expectantly. 

"We hate each other, Tristan, in case you've forgotten. How are we going to continue this…whatever it is, without tearing each other apart?" 

"Hmm…I hadn't thought of that…I guess we could just agree to try not to fight during this…you know, thing." He settles on. 

"True…a…what are those things called…an armistice!" I snap my fingers triumphantly. "I guess that's settled then. Although, I can't guarantee that no fighting will ensue." 

"Same here," he says. 

I laugh a little. "I don't believe I'm doing this. I mean, it's you! But, you know, after Steve…" 

"Your ex?" he inquires. 

I nod. "The last thing I want right now is another relationship. And I think you feel the same way," 

"Believe me, I do" he replies. 

"So this…there's no strings, right? I mean, I'm not going to suddenly become your sex slave, being at your beck and call all the time, but we're not dating, either. Understand?" I can't believe I just said the word "strings" in reference to a relationship. Still, I want this to be clear. 

"I didn't mean it any other way," he says truthfully, "Although, it's always been a fantasy of mine to—" 

"Ah! Just, stop right there, please," I cut in. He complies. We don't speak for a moment. 

I wrinkle my nose. "This sounds so…official. It's pretty weird." 

"Extremely weird." 

Yet another silence falls. I go back and forth in my head, trying to push away the doubts that are starting to fill it. I'm still not entirely sure I want to do this. I decide to air them out. 

"Tristan…do you think, I mean…do you feel like this is going to work? Like, considering that it's, well—us?" I look at him seriously. 

"Well, it could…. and it couldn't, I suppose," he muses. All of a sudden, he moves closer, and the space between us lessens. He continues. "But don't you want to find out for yourself? Take that risk? It could be quite the adventure, you know…" 

"Ugh!" I push him away, "You're disgusting!" The nerve of him, really! He remains where I pushed him, a foot or so ways across the room. He smirks. Gah! I despise that smirk. I despise even calling it a "smirk". It makes it sound like it's a trademark or something. Jackass. 

We remain in our new positions, me near the bed, searching for my discarded jeans, him standing a few feet in front of me. There's an indescribable pause in the air, as if something is holding its breath. 

A moment later, a veritable "play" button is pushed, and we are again lunging, grasping at each other, the breath letting out long and slow between us. Then, suddenly, I hear a noise. I ignore it for a moment before I realize it's not so much of a noise as a song. A very familiar kind of song. 

My cell phone. 

"Dammit!" Well, that's what I would've said if my mouth weren't already occupied. Lorelai's got to be freaking out, wondering why I didn't come home last night. I had told her I was going to visit Paris in Hartford. This is one of the rare breaks she spends at home, catching up with her Nanny. 

I struggle to break our lips apart. "Tris—Tris---Tristan!" I manage to get out in between kisses. He misinterprets my pause for a moment. His mouth moves down, to my neck, giving me the freedom to speak properly at last. He then seems to finally hear me. 

"What?" 

I force myself to concentrate on what I'm trying to say. "My…cell phone….ringing…." Then, the feeling of his ministrations on my neck takes over again. 

"Don't answer it," he mumbles, far too busy to really grasp the meaning of what I'm saying. 

"No, you don't…you don't understand," I continue, finally breaking away from his hold. He looks mildly confused. "I have to get that." I start to rummage desperately around the room, following the sound of the ringer. 

"What? Why? But I thought that---?" Tristan seems to be, as I've noticed before with other guys, virtually dumbfounded by the notion that I am stopping our so-called sexual escapades. I've come to notice that it's very hard for guys to switch gears if they've just been in the middle of anything relating to sex, or having sex. They have to get their brains to function again or something. 

My phone continues to ring. "It's most likely my mother, and if I don't answer this she's going to start worrying, even though she's probably already worrying now so her worrying will be pushed to the limit and that's a whole lot of worrying, and I don't want to subject Lorelai to that, so I need to find my phone!" I ramble, frazzled. Tristan runs a hand through his hair, disappointed but defeated. Finally, I stumble upon the silver Nokia under a dresser, in the pocket of my worn-out but comfortable, so I can't bear to throw them away, jeans. I quickly answer it. 

"Hello?" 

"Hey, sweets, is everything ok with Paris? You didn't come in last night. Of course, you may have and I was just asleep so I didn't hear it, because I am as you know a very deep sleeper, but then again since you're answering your phone, you must be somewhere that isn't our house, unless of course you went for an early morning jog or something, meaning you did come home last night but left early, but by now I'd say you'd be back, but of course you never jog because you take after me and---" Lorelai's usual energetic chatter sounds tainted with something. I feel a wave of guilt wash over me for causing her any uncertainty. 

"Mom, it's alright. Don't worry, Paris is fine, I'm fine. I'm sorry, have you been worrying?" 

"Oh, don't be silly. You're a big girl; I was just making sure everything was good, since you didn't call. Not that you have to, of course, but you usually do if you're out late when you come home. So, how is Paris? Still as lovable as ever?" 

I giggle slightly. Despite her taking a liking to Paris years ago, my mother still likes to crack jokes about my less-than-relaxed friend. "She's as good as she can be. We just started talking, catching up on things we've missed, and I lost track of time. Then she just invited me to stay over, since she had the extra room and everything." I am surprised at how easily I can lie to my own mother like this. I swallow. 

"Oh, okay. Her parents were out of town again, I assume?" she replies. 

"As always," I say, "But I'm really sorry. I should've called." 

"Consider yourself forgiven," Lorelai says breezily. 

"Ok then," I respond, relieved, but guilty for feeling that way. "So did I miss anything last night?" 

"Oh, nothing big," she waves it off, "Although I did force Luke to participate in a Classic movie night." 

I mock a gasp. "Wait, classic as in classic movies, or classic like the movie nights of old?" 

I can practically hear her grin through the phone. "The latter!" 

"You didn't!" I practically squeal. Tristan shoots me a strange look as he goes through his chest of drawers, looking for a suitable pair of pants. 

"Oh, I did. Luke has now seen _When Harry Met Sally_, _You've Got Mail_, and _Sleepless_ _In Seattle_ in succession. Can you believe he's never seen _You've Got Mail_? Anyway, I was in a nostalgic mood, and I remembered that this was one of the first movies nights we had, when you were about thirteen? That was before I taught you about the great directors versus the mock-worthy ones. First, every girl needs to get acquainted with the good ole romantic comedy. So, I declared last night Nora Ephron night." 

"Wow!" I laugh, "I remember those movie nights. How did you get him to watch with you?" 

"Well, I told him it was a customary thing all husbands did with their wives…all the good ones, anyway…and that I've sat through enough Bruce Willis and Clint Eastwood movies to last a lifetime. He was guilt-ridden, and I got him." 

I chuckle. "You can never go wrong with guilt-tripping." 

"Ah, I have taught you well, wise daughter. You speak the truth. Plus, when he protested, I threatened to make him watch _Michael_ instead. That shut him up pretty quick." 

I shudder. "I believe it." 

"Yeah. So, you're coming home soon, or…? 

"Oh! Oh, yeah, definitely. I'm just about to get in the car. I'll be there in a half-hour. Traffic shouldn't be too bad." 

"Ok, hon, sounds good." 

"Alright, bye Mom," 

"Bye. Love you". 

"Love you too." I hang up the cell and let out a breath, my earlier frazzled state waning. Tristan is now fully dressed, seemingly accepting the fact that there won't be any more sex today. 

He looks at me. "So, you're leaving now, I gather?" 

I nod. "I have to. I've stayed late enough as it is. If I hurry, Luke will still make me breakfast." I pull on my jeans, jumping a little before I zip and button them. 

He laughs a little as he watches me. I look at him, irritated yet confused. "What? You've never seen a girl…uh, put on pants before?" 

He laughs even harder. "Ooh, nice comeback! I felt that one." 

I glare at him. "Shut up." He puts his hands up in a parody of defense. 

I ignore it and proceed to find my flip-flops and slide into them and grab my phone from its resting place on the dresser. I start for the door. Tristan follows me down the rather long, winding staircase, waiting to speak until I reach the front door. 

He stands there, a bit awkwardly. "So…" 

"Yeah…well, according to our 'agreement' or whatever you want to call it, I actually am going to see you again, correct?" 

"Correct," he agrees, "I suppose I'll have to call you, then?" 

I almost kick him for being such an ass, but then remember he is serious. "Well, yeah, I guess. Or, you could just drop by…unbeknownst to me…sometime next weekend. My mom and step dad are going to be away. It's their wedding anniversary," I explain. 

"Okay," he says nonchalantly, "Maybe I will." 

"Alright then." 

"Yep." 

I pause for only a moment before saying, 

"Well, good-bye then." 

"Bye." 

He opens the door for me and steps back, as I make my way towards his driveway, and my car. I feel his eyes on me slightly as I walk. I turn my head and see him closing the door behind him. I could've sworn I just saw him shaking his head a little, as if in disbelief. 

I reach my car, finally, and get in. I start it up, ready to make the drive back to Stars Hollow. I've come home to it every summer since I started at Yale, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Everything I miss while classes are in session, I get to have surrounding me again. Once more it becomes a daily occurrence to see Luke and a much-aged Taylor arguing over which one of them should sell cherry cokes, and Babette and Miss Patty relaying the latest gossip. Apparently, Mom and Luke have had sex in the diner's kitchen. You could learn a lot from these women, even stuff you don't want to know. I shudder a little. Still, it's home. The purest form of the word. 

I concentrate on the road in front of me, the route well memorized in my mind. Unfortunately, though, this does not last very long. Oh sure, I'm looking at the road. But my mind is somewhere else. The agreement Tristan and I made this morning sits in my mind, daring me to elaborate on it, mull it over. Only I don't want to think about it, because when I do, the grotesquely large question will be brought up again: _Am I making a huge mistake?_ And I have no idea whether I am or not. I don't even know whether this is that big of deal to be thinking about it so much or not. 

Well, it kind of is. I mean, it's not exactly a relationship, but it involves sex. I've never really had casual sex, (why bother if you get nothing out of it?) so to me, I suppose it's a fairly large deal. But somehow, I know that I would be getting something out of this. Plus, I'll admit it: I'm weak. The need, the aching that fills me up every time I'm not busy, and at night just before I fall asleep, is sometimes unbearable. And to know that another person has this same ache makes me feel a bit better. Not that I would ever admit to Tristan making me feel anything other than repulsed and nauseous, of course. 

Then again, Tristan may have already stored away the event of this morning in his mind, never thinking about it till the next time he sees me. But on the on the other hand, he was the one who thought of this. Why would he think it was insignificant? No, he doesn't. I'm being stupid. Actually, neurotic is more like it. Wait, why do I even care what Tristan thinks about all of this? Oh, please. I so don't. 

Just then, another thought occurs to me as I make a right turn. What if I'm just giving in to every guy's fantasy relationship: sex with no attachment? What if Tristan starts bragging about this to his friends, how he persuaded me into having sex with him? No! That won't happen. It can't happen! Plus, this is a two-way operation. This is a mutual thing, here, and works both ways. Scary as it is, I may just have to trust that he won't pull anything like that. That he really is hurting as much as I have been. My mind goes back to the night at the DeWitt's party right before he kissed me. His eyes…so full of something I at first didn't recognize. Later, I realized that I, in fact, did. 

When I looked into the mirror. 

No. He definitely is hurting as much as I am, there's no question. It's just…I don't want this to get messy. I've had enough messy for a lifetime, a whole pigpen's worth. I don't want this to be complicated, either. I've always loved the simple things. Alright, that sounds cheesy, but it's the truth. Simplicity is highly underrated these days, and it would be so nice if this "agreement" wouldn't blow up in my face. I'm not saying it's going it to be a Niles/Lillith-like parting of the ways, but I just hope it doesn't make anything worse. Although I'm not sure that's possible. Still, there is that risk involved. What if I get too attached to him? 

I snort and almost ram into the car in front of me from behind. Yeah, sure, that'll happen. Ha! I giggle. Sure, I won't be able to be without my love slave! Oh, dear me! I don't think so. It's not like the sex is that good anyways. I mean, it's not bad, but it's not outstanding either. It's just…different. It starts out frantic, then slows down a bit. We never really look each other in the face. I mean, how would one describe sex with a person you abhor? There's always a moment, though, where our vulnerability is exposed. Our eyes lock, and we wordlessly confirm the other's need for intimacy before going over the edge. 

It's things like this that make me doubt that this whole arrangement will work. It seems like we're just using each other. But it doesn't feel like it. I sound stubborn, and maybe I am. Still, it feels more like leaning on each other. Neither of us is very strong right now, and maybe we will be once this thing is over. 

Maybe we need this. Ugh. I never thought (or wanted) to see the day when I would need Tristan DuGrey in any way, shape, or form. Or for anything. And now, here I am, analyzing our sexual encounters. I sigh. I'm nearly home. It can't come soon enough. I stop at a side-street intersection. Two people, a guy and a girl, cross the street as I wait, rather impatiently, for my turn to go. The girl looks about my age, with radiant blonde hair that goes to her shoulders. She's laughing at something her companion is saying. I look at him a bit more closely. Hmm. Brown, slightly unruly hair. Exotic eyes. Huh. It almost looks like--- 

Steve. 

Holding the pretty blonde girl's hand. Leading her to a driveway down the block of suburban houses. Kissing her. Then, opening the door to a car I do not recognize. 

Looking happy. Smiling. 

All of it plays out as a slideshow in my mind, slow and pausing on specific details. Then, it all hits me, hard and thick, a violent assault on my emotions. I try my hardest to be strong, the questions swirling around in my stomach, ready to nauseate me upon me asking them. Why? How could he be so happy? Did he ever love me they way he said? Just then, the car behind me honks loudly, the driver swearing something I hardly hear. I speed away angrily, tears threatening to run down my cheeks at any given time. I hate this. I despise that every time I think I'm over Stephen, something happens to send all that crashing down. I think I'm ready for certain things, but no. 

How long is two months, really? Is it enough time to get over someone? Start seeing people again? Apparently, yes, in Steve's case. Or is it a time of mourning, of wondering when you'll ever stop seeing things that remind you of them, or thinking about and analyzing what went wrong? Is it too long? Too short? None of these are questions I have definite answers to. As I approach Stars Hollow, I drive into town with a new realization of what I lack. I need strength. And if this "agreement" is going to bring me that, if there's any chance of it… 

…Then maybe I do need this.


	4. Under Your Skin

_Narcissus_

**Author**: SweetThing 

**Chapter**: 4 "Under Your Skin" 

**Disclaimer**: Horns go "honk" and bells go "ring"! I don't own a gosh darn thing! Hee, Angel, that was for you. Anyway though, in all seriousness, I don't have any claims to anything. The chapter title and lyrics are from "Shiver" by Maroon 5, off of their CD, _Songs About Jane_. I also don't own _When Harry Met Sally_, or any of its scenes. 

**Author's Note**: Thank you, once again, for all the wonderful feedback. I can't say that enough—I adore all of you. :-D  And, Happy 150th Birthday Trories! Above all, this is for you.

**Dedications**: Angeleyez, because I am the QUEEN! But she is the best beta, not to mention listener-of-ramblings, ever. Surya and Susie, because they rock, are always encouraging, and they share with me. ;-) Also, Nate, who is hilarious and knows what part of this chapter he inspired. Finally, all of my reviewers, whom I love: MrSchimpf (lol), blurred, Susie, linds, Deeta, piper-h-99, Genevah, klm111a, aliseeus, kay, PixiePunk, LandonLover, trory-goddess, Liza, Vicki Carmicheal, Jamie, Priya, Angeleyez, (hee!), rach, mandie, and Jewls13. 

  
_You chew me up / you spit me out / enjoy the taste I leave in your mouth/ you look at me/ I look at you/ neither of us know what to do…_

  
I can't believe I'm doing this. 

No, I mean really, I must have been on something on Thursday because I can't remember for the life of me why the hell I'm pulling in to Rory's driveway. To have sex. It goes without saying why that name is so synonymous with everything grating and irritating in my life. Thus, I'm at a loss for why I'm here. It's simply a conundrum why I would even---- 

Alright. Fine. I'll admit it. The truth is I'm kidding myself. I know _exactly_ why I'm in Rory Gilmore's driveway, just about to get out of the car to go have sex. 

Because I want to. Because this thing with Charisse tore me up inside, and it hurts to think about her. Because I don't know what else I really can do. 

Because I need to. 

The stuff I've been saying, and even thinking, lately, has made me question if I still live in the same universe I used to. But nothing shocks me as much as that recent discovery does. I actually desire a woman who, not two weeks ago, the only thing I desired about her was to irritate her. Make her squirm, if you will. Now, I want both. 

I sigh. I've thought about this enough over the duration of the week. It's a road filled with tracks, a beaten dead horse, running over and over in my mind. And I'm exhausted mentally from it. It's time to just act, crazy or not. 

I finally get out of my '74 Mustang (fully loaded) and start towards Rory's modest but charming house, hesitating slightly. I'm like a fucking high-school freshman going to the dance. My hands are clammy and shoved into my pockets, my mouth is dry, and my stomach is tightly knotted. Jesus! I am not nervous! It's just, I hope her mom and step-dad really are away, like she said. What if they haven't left yet? Oh, please. It's Saturday. They had to have left at least yesterday. Plus, she said this _weekend_. We're well into it now. 

I approach the front door. I stand there a moment before knocking once. Twice, my reluctance rolling away gradually, giving way to a new emotion I don't recognize. It is faceless, lingering in my system. But I don't have time to really acknowledge it because then… 

She's opening the door. 

She looks slightly uncomfortable as she pulls the door all the way ajar and says, 

"Hey." 

"Uh, hey," I reply. A pause falls over us, heavy and slow. 

Finally, I have to say something. 

"So, do you want me to---?" 

"Oh! Oh yeah, sure. C'mon in." Rory seems to be kicking herself for forgetting the proper etiquette for guests in her abode. Not that I'm really a guest. I don't really know what I'd call myself in this situation. 

I follow her into the house, taking it in. It's rather charming, in a disheveled yet hip sort of way. It has that warm aroma to it that states one thing: this isn't just a house. It's a home. I know it all too well, yet it's something I've never felt in my own mansion. The only time I really feel the way you're supposed to feel around family members is, ironically, at my grandparents' house. 

The maternal set. 

But, that's irrelevant right now. I turn my mind back the present as Rory walks quickly down the small hallway, pointing out rooms along the way. It seems she's giving me a tour. I shrug. 

"Um…yeah, that's the kitchen, right there, and over to your right is the basic, you know, living room, and mom and Luke's room is upstairs, and my room---" 

She pauses, slightly embarrassed. 

"God. I can't believe I'm showing you my house," she says, her polite yet timid façade gone. The awkwardness lifts significantly. I'm almost relieved when she continues, 

"I mean, I don't even know why I'm doing this. I hardly ever show the house to anyone because really who's come in here in the past, maybe three years except for my step dad? Even then, he's known what our house looks like forever because he and my mom were really good friends even before they got married and then---" 

She stops herself. "You know what, I'm sorry. I just, I have no idea how to—" 

"Begin?" The word is ousted out of my mouth before I fully realize what I have said. 

"Yeah," Rory responds, looking at me strangely. Then, something is set off inside her, it seems. Not that I really know about the inner-workings of her mind or anything, but it's written all over her face. 

Then she explodes. 

"Argh! I can't do this, it's just too unnatural and awkward and weird! It's crazy, we're crazy! I mean, this is not going to work, every time I'm around you all I feel like doing is ripping you apart! We can't possibly overcome that, it's too deep, too permanent. I mean, we've been in this pattern for years, I see you, we fight until the other one's tired, and---" 

I cut her off. "You know, don't you think this so-called 'pattern' you're referring to has changed just a little over the past two weeks? You can't deny that, and even though I'd love to, neither can I. We've already analyzed and discussed this to death, and I thought we were on the same page with this. This might just end up helping us as I told you last week, so what's the problem?" 

"I told you what was the problem, you insensitive asshole! Do you not understand the concept of listening?" 

She has the nerve to insult me? What the hell is this? 

I raise my voice to meet hers. "For your information, I was listening, and it's not my fault you're nervous or scared or whatever it is that's causing you to freak out right now. You told me to come here, I came. What more do you want, besides the obvious?" 

She gasps audibly at my last comment. I almost cringe. Maybe I went a little too far. A split second silence roars like the wind. 

When it passes, I see, almost in slow motion, her hand rising. She pulls it back and slaps me sharply across the face. A clear "smack" is heard. 

"How. Dare you?" Rory's sentence comes out slow and broken, her breathing slightly irregular from the yelling. 

"I thought you'd be able to get this. I should've known. I was wrong," she explains calmly, seething. 

I put my hand up to my face, the annoying stinging sensation grating on my nerves. I don't believe she actually got physical on me. I'm at the breaking point. I need just the right button to push. 

I find it. 

I smirk, a sense of knowing coming over me. I turn fully towards her and say, mimicking her overly cool tone, 

"What you see. Is what you get." 

Rory seems to be rendered speechless, the look on her face a mixture of disgust and disbelief. She lets out a strange noise, something between a gasp and…well, I'm not sure what. We are very close now, less than five feet away from one another. In our arguing, we had moved without really consciously knowing. Plus, I had to get in her face. It's basic knowledge for any guy who really wants to irritate a girl. 

I continue to look in her in the eye, waiting for her to throw something equally nasty back at me. She always does. And it only gets on my nerves more. 

She finally obliges. 

"What, am I supposed to kiss you now or something?" She asks, the sarcasm and disgust still evident in her voice. I match it. 

I move. One step, two. Pause. Then, a slow reply. 

"You, tell me." 

Suddenly, she seizes the back of my neck. And proceeds to crush her lips to mine in possibly the hardest kiss I've ever received in my life. It is fierce, angry, and contains demanding undertones that are a little hard to process until I pick up on them. 

They then become quite familiar. I take her cue, returning the kiss quickly with an equal burning that this has stirred up in me. Luckily, we are right by her bedroom. Kiss after kiss, everything happens the way it happened Thursday, and before that even. We can't help ourselves. I lead her, backwards, towards her bedroom, where we collapse on the bed, inhibitions be damned. 

It seems everything is going according to plan. 

* 

A while later, we lay, slightly exhausted, in her bed, which is smaller than mine but still big enough for two, thank God (it would not exactly be a turn-on to have sex in her childhood single bed). When I had gotten to Stars Hollow, it was around 7:30, so around this time, I've found, sex can often lead to sleep afterwards. Obviously. I sigh tiredly. The aftermath of this "escapade" is noticeably different from the previous ones. The feeling in the air is more relaxed, almost…comfortable. That scares me a little, but I suppose with our arrangement, stuff like this is basically a given. 

Rory suddenly comes to life. 

She seems to be laughing a bit as she says, 

"Well, congratulations." 

I turn a little to look at her. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Oh c'mon, you can brag. I know you want to," Rory continues, looking at me sideways. 

"Are you drunk?" I question, half-seriously. She's really starting to freak me out. 

She smacks me on the chest, harder than necessary. I let out a yelp. "No! I'm just…tired, I guess. I don't know." She lies back down, letting out a breath as if under stress. 

Then she seems to realize what, exactly, she just said. I see her cringe. 

Unfortunately, it is too late because the words are already leaving my mouth. "So, I really wore you out, huh?" 

"Ugh! I knew I shouldn't have said that. Fine, fine, have your fun." Her tone changes, over-flowing with sarcasm. "Oh yes, you are such a stallion, Tristan. Ride me, ride me! God, how immature can you be?" 

I laugh through her response and when she finishes, say, 

  
"Oh, you'd be surprised. I can go low, sweetie." 

  
"Is that supposed to be threatening?" Now she's the one laughing. "And don't talk down to me. Really, you sound like an idiot. Although, the jury's still out in my book as to whether you really are one or not." 

I feign hurt. "Insulting my intelligence, are you? That wounds me, Rory, it really does." 

Rory rolls her eyes. "I'm sure I've scarred you for life. You can send all your therapist bills to me in ten years when you have that emotional breakdown triggered by my insults and sarcastic remarks." 

"Hey, you never know," I say overly serious, "One of these days, you could find one in your mailbox." 

She snorts. "I doubt that. Oh, what time is it, anyway?" She suddenly asks. 

I look over to the right, where an alarm clock is sitting on a small night table. 

"It is…8:33." 

"Wow, it's early still. I wonder why we didn't fall asleep?" 

I shrug. "Probably because it was early." I pause. Something has been on my mind from the minute I reached her front porch. 

"That reminds me…am I staying? Like, all night?" 

It seems she hasn't thought about this. 

"Oh. Well, I'm not really sure. Do you…want to stay?" 

This is not an easy question for me to answer. Of course I could just tell her the truth, which is yes. The last thing I feel like doing right now is making the drive all the way back to Hartford. It's a pain in the ass. Besides, what would I being going to home to? An empty house? My father "getting acquainted" with a co-worker? Doesn't sound all that appealing. I decide to opt for indifference. 

"It doesn't really matter. I can leave if you want, or I could just crash here and leave in the morning." 

"Okay," she pauses, "You can stay if you want. I mean, it might make more sense to just drive back tomorrow morning, you know, when traffic won't be that bad." 

"Alright then, I'll stay," I say. And I didn't even have to say my excuse. Perfect. 

"Alright, fine," she says nonchalantly. A silence falls. Neither of us speaks for a few moments until it becomes too much for me. 

Fortunately, Rory places the burden of starting conversation on her shoulders. She turns to face me. 

"So, since you're staying here… and I'm not really that tired, I think we should just find something to talk about for a while, until we fall asleep, or get tired enough to just turn off the lights. I'm not seeing a whole lot of other options here, so, as hard as it will be, I'm still suggesting that we make an effort to engage in civil conversation. Agreed?" 

Her eyes question me as well as her voice. I groan inwardly. Doesn't she know anything about the male species? Talking is not one of out strongest suits. Plus, I'm getting tired, and I really don't feel like arguing with her for another hour or so. 

"Hey! Not necessarily. Why do we really have to talk, anyway? There is always that…other option," I say, looking at her suggestively. 

Her face wears a disgusted expression. "Do you have any idea how much of a turn-off that is?" "Besides," she sighs, "We are going to be around each other rather frequently over the next couple of months, so we might as well start trying now to converse like people who are capable of coexisting with each other." She looks at me, bordering on exasperated. "Now, can you please cooperate with me on this?" 

I mull over this for a second. She does have a point. I reluctantly acknowledge that if this is going to keep working like it has tonight; we need to be able to have a conversation like people usually do, minus the biting arguments. Well, at least try to, anyway. 

"Yeah, ok, I agree. I will try," I look at her pointedly, "As long as you try." 

She rolls her eyes. "I wouldn't have brought this up if I wasn't going to try, Tristan." Her voice is low as she adds, "Although I'm sure I'll be wondering why the hell I'm bothering half the time." 

"Oh c'mon!" I retort. "Now who's the immature one? Give me a little credit. I was the one who thought of this in the first place, remember? I am capable of being civil, hard as that is to believe." 

Rory sighs. Her voice is heavy with what sounds like regret as she says, "You know what? You're right. I shouldn't have said that. It's just hard to give credit to someone who's basically been the bane of your existence for practically all of your teenage years and after. Which are full enough of angst as it is," she adds pointedly. 

I can't deny the truth in what she's just said. I wave off her apology. "Don't worry about it, it's alright. I'm just tired, and with everything that's been happening lately---" 

"A bit overwhelming, isn't it?" She jokes. 

I chuckle a little, exhausted. "That's an understatement. Plus, the whole thing with Charisse is kind of…new, still." 

She looks mildly curious. "Your ex, right?" I nod. "I knew it was something with a _C_." 

"You were right," I say, confirmation drenching my voice. At certain times, even hearing or saying her name still stings. 

I look over at Rory, who seems to be pondering something. Finally, she speaks. 

"Hey…I know you probably don't want to talk about this…but, at the party a few weeks ago, you mentioned…she cheated on you?" 

I nod. "Yeah, I had some wine in me that night." She giggles a little. I protest, a little shocked. "Not funny! I was…drowning my troubles, if you will." 

"Ah, so you went for the classic cure-all." 

"You got it." 

Another silence falls. I've lost count of what number it is over the course of the night. I find myself breaking it once again as I then say, 

"So…Steve, right? He's the guy who…?" 

"Dumped me? Yes, that's him. The infamous." 

"I see. An asshole, huh?" 

"No, that's the thing. He really, truly wasn't an asshole. I wish he had been one, though. I could call him one till I was blue in the face, even till I was purple in the face, but… it would be a lie. He was possibly the sweetest, most caring guy I've ever met." 

"Huh. Wow, so, basically---" 

She breaks in a bit absent-mindedly, looking as if she wants to finish, 

"The opposite of you, yeah. Anyway, then---" 

"Hey!" I exclaim, "I resent that!" 

"Well think about it, how am I supposed to see you after all of our, dare I say, history over the course of my adolescence? You weren't, and frankly, _aren't_ exactly pleasant." 

I sigh. "True. Alright, so he was a really nice guy. What happened? If you don't mind me asking," I add as an afterthought. 

"No, it's okay. Well, he was perfect, to me anyway. And our relationship was going so great. He was so wonderful and caring and sweet. Almost…" 

"Too good to be true, right? I've heard stories like this before," I explain, off her look. "The guys back at school, they have had every possible failed relationship or problem you can think of." 

She nods. "Exactly. Sometimes, when I look back, I can kind oSometimes, when I look back, I can kind of see that it was like this fantasy relationship. The kind you only see in books, and movies and stuff. Cheesy as it sounds, we just seemed so right for each other. I'm not quite sure what it was between us, but I always thought that what we had wasspecial_._ Anyway though, we had been dating for almost two years, about, and that's when it started happening. He wasn't himself, and he just seemed so…withdrawn, you know? So detached. Then, all of a sudden one day he wanted to talk, and---" 

Ouch. I would never have done this to any of my previous girlfriends. Getting The Talk was bad enough. It was basically a round-a-bout way of saying, "I don't want to be with you anymore, the spark is gone." Or, in my case: "There is someone else. I love them, but not you." Only, people found pretty, more verbose ways of communicating that to you. And it sucked. Internally, I stick to my previous assumption of Steve: an asshole. "He had The Talk with you? As in the Relationship Talk?" I inquire. 

"That's right," she says, "If that's what you want to call it. Then, he mumbled some stuff about how we'd been growing apart, heading in 'different directions', etcetera, etcetera. All of this crap that just came out of nowhere, you know? I remember thinking, 'When did this all happen? Was I present at the time?' I was so confused." 

Rory's face looks pained as she recalls the event, suddenly lost in the past. I am, shockingly enough, now listening rather intently to her story. If there's anyone who knows what being utterly confused, not to mention lost, is like, it's me. 

She continues, "And there was more of that blather, I guess you'd call it, even though I don't really say the word 'blather' but whatever, if it works it works, right? About moving on and feelings changing, the big picture. And that's…" she pauses, her voice thick, "…That was when he told me that he didn't feel the same way used to about me. That he…he…" she stops for a moment and swallows hard. "He wasn't sure if he loved me anymore." 

We are perfectly still in her bed as she gathers herself in order to finish. 

She clears her throat. "And then…and then, it ended. It was over. And, we went our separate ways, and…that's it." Her story, apparently, is over, and her voice is detached. I can't believe that Rory didn't see what an asshole this Steve person was before it finally blew up in their faces. She has always seemed pretty perceptive if nothing else. Than again, maybe Steve was a good guy…it was just one of those things. Still, "one of those things" can beat a person up pretty badly. I should know. 

Because I _am_ "one of those things". My whole relationship turned out to be "one of those things". Doting boyfriend gets fucked over by sweet but just can't help herself and falls in love with someone else girl. It was like a page out of a cheesy dating handbook. 

So, all of this in mind, I do the only thing that seems appropriate. I know not to mess with her when she's in this state. 

I clear my throat. "Are you…you know, alright?" 

Rory looks at me for what seems to be the first time in a while. 

"Yeah…yeah, I'm fine. It just…" 

"Sucks, doesn't it?" 

"The understatement of the century, ladies and gentlemen." I chuckle a little. Then, I put my plan to steer the conversation off course into action. Jeez. All I need is the over-used theme music and I could be James fucking Bond. Well, not exactly. I clear my throat. 

"You know, for all the good qualities this guy had, nobody's perfect. There had to be something, some neurosis, a habit, that bothered you a little about him." 

She pauses. "I've tried that, honestly. But my warped, over-analytical mind just turned into more good qualities about him since it was his flaws that made him more human." She shakes her head, frustrated. "I am such a mess. Really. I need to put something on." She gets up out of the bed with a quilt wrapped around her and busies herself with finding appropriate pajamas. 

I don't quit. "But no, this could still work. I mean, what were these flaws? Was he a momma's boy? He snore? Was he…" I decide to try to lighten the mood a little. "Bad in bed?" 

Rory suddenly grabs her pillow from off the bed and hits me with it. "Jackass! Why does everything automatically go back to sex with you? It doesn't matter how good or bad a person is in bed, if you love them, that's enough! Even if they're not the most stellar in the bedroom department, you don't know, because it's not important!" 

She's sufficiently pissed at this point. Whoops. 

"Alright! Alright, I'm…sorry. God," I say, "I was just trying to get you to lighten up a little. I was kidding around!" 

She slowly turns around, clad in boxers and a matching tank top thing that girls always wear. 

"You know what? Don't worry about it. Your attempts at trying to, I hesitate to say the phrase 'cheer me up', were misguided, but…I shouldn't have taken it so seriously like that, so I apologize, I guess." She lets her left hand, which was practically flying all over the place as she was speaking, drop, looking exhausted from trading barbs with me half the night. She walks towards the side of the bed she'd been lying on before sitting down. Her shoulders slump. 

"Augh, God," she groans, rubbing her temples. "Do you know what the really sick irony behind this whole argument is?" 

"Hmm?" 

"He really… wasn't bad in bed." 

I snort. "Really?" 

"He wasn't astronomical or anything, and I certainly don't think he could've been my Sheldon, but---" 

"Your what?" I am more than a little confused. 

"Sheldon. From _When Harry Met Sally_?" 

I have no idea what she's talking about. "Care to elaborate? I never saw the movie," I explain. 

"Oh, well it's the guy you've had the best sex of your life with. Girl, in your case, but in the movie, Meg Ryan's character tells Billy Crystal's character that this guy's name was Sheldon." 

I cringe a little. _"Sheldon?"_

She laughs. "Exactly, that's the whole point. Then Billy Crystal goes off on this whole schpiel that she did not have the best sex of her life with Sheldon because of his name. It's a great scene." 

"Oh, okay." I stop for a moment, processing this new information. "So you're saying you don't think you had the best sex of your life with him." 

"Right," she responds, "If he was the best sex of my life, than he obviously would've been the One, or whatever other cheesy title they give for the person you're supposed to be with forever." 

"Interesting logic, I'll give you that," I say thoughtfully. 

"Yeah. I mean, I know I said that the person being 'good' or 'bad' was irrelevant, but he obviously wasn't the best sex I've ever had because…we're over. I mean, look what happened." 

"It wasn't really meant to be, then." 

Rory sighs, a very familiar sound. "I guess not. Sometimes I just wish it were though…you know what I mean?" She smiles wryly. "God, I can't believe I told you all this. I have a tendency to ramble." 

"I've noticed." 

"Hey!" She protests. "Have a little sympathy, please." 

"Oh, relax," I reply, "I was kidding…. sort of." 

She settles into her bed again, significantly tired. I suddenly have a rather amusing thought. 

I look over at her. "You know, it might actually be a good thing that this Steve wasn't the best sex you've ever had. I mean, _Steve_? Not exactly a fitting name for someone described as that." 

Rory looks thoughtful. "Yeah, that's true. You know what, Tristan, I'm getting tired, so why don't we just call it a night, alright?" 

I continue, almost not hearing her request. "Plus, whoever this guy turns out to be, there's only one out there who's going to prove what I've always known." 

She looks increasingly irritated as she replies, "Oh yeah? What's that?" 

I grin evilly. "That you are a screamer in bed. No doubt about it." 

"Ugh! Would you please just shut the hell up now? I am not a 'screamer' in bed, nor will I ever be one. Now as I as said, I'm going to sleep. _We_ are going to sleep. Meaning you as well." 

"Oh, now I don't know about that. With all the yelling we've been doing over the years and everything? You, my dear, have a lot pent-sexual frustration that you don't even know about, which is why with the right guy I could really see you getting—" 

"Enough!" she yells. "First of all, if you ever call me 'dear' or any other degrading pet name again, you will be permanently damaged in an area of your body that will not be disclosed at this point and time—" 

"Why, because you're just making this up and not even bothering to say where?" I interrupt. 

"Because I haven't figured out what place would hurt you most!" She fires back. 

"And," she continues before I have a chance in break in, "Second, for the love of God, keep your fucking mouth shut! I do not have any sexual frustration, the only frustration I have is with you and your lewd comments you make every five goddamn minutes! Plus, it just shows how much of a perv you really are because you thought about me and sex in the same sentence. So there. Now go to sleep, please." She looks triumphant as she turns away from me, towards her side of the bed. 

I sigh. Maybe I should just go to bed. But annoying her is so much more fun! Plus, I'm not as tired as she is. I have stamina. 

I suddenly have a stroke of genius. That's it! _Stamina_. 

"I just feel for whoever this Wonder Boy turns out to be. I mean, is he really going to have enough staying power in order to keep up with you and your---" 

"Alright! What the hell is it going to take for you to shut up?! What?" 

I use this opportunity to the fullest. Words are not needed. 

I turn towards her and give her a knowing yet suggestive look. 

The look she gives in response is reminiscent of someone trying prunes for the first time. "You disgust me," she says, dead serious. She seems to mull over something for a moment. Finally, she says, 

"If we have sex, will you be quiet?" 

I nod. 

"For longer than two seconds?" 

I nod again. Wow. This is easier than I thought. 

"Alright, here are the terms. If you do not say anything, make any noise, expel any bodily function for ten consecutive minutes with me watching the clock, then and only then, will we have sex." 

I look up, dubious as well as irritated. Is she serious? 

"Are you serious? This is just another one of your little mind games where you say you'll do it, and then when the ten minutes is up, you'll go to sleep anyway. Sorry, toots, I ain't buying it." 

"Oh, c'mon, when have I ever done this before? Never. I'm serious." 

"You honestly think I'm going to fall for this? That I'd risk being humiliated by you when you tell me you're not going to have sex with me anyway, much to your delight?" 

"Yes, I do, although, there's nothing to fall for because this is not a trick! Of course you'd take that risk. You're a guy, and you're…you! You'd do anything to get it. You are, at the moment, so sexually deprived that you will even risk being made my virtual whipping boy, only to possibly find out that I may not do it anyway." She looks smug. 

I, at this point, have been sitting straight up in bed, and I look at her, shooting daggers in her direction. 

"If you really think that these head games and going back and forth are going to make me crack----" 

Rory interrupts me, "I know it." 

About two seconds go by. I can't tear myself away from her eyes. I'm too stubborn. Apparently, so is she. For some reason, I have a strong feeling that this can only lead to one thing. 

"Well, you were right," I say hurriedly and pull her towards me. She complies, and we are a tangle of arms and legs and defeat, struggling for affinity. 

It is only later that we fall asleep. 

* 

The next day, I am awakened by the sun shining in my eyes through one of the windows. And something else. I have a distinct feeling of extra weight on me. In my half-asleep state, it takes me a moment to figure out that it's Rory, who is splayed rather haphazardly across my upper-body. She has a pretty good hold though, and I am very tempted to go back to asleep rather than risk getting kicked or scratched or both. 

I close my eyes and let out a breath. She shifts beneath me, mumbling something or other in her sleep. I am more than a little surprised that she hasn't figured out just who exactly she is lying on, to say the least. I carefully look over at her clock radio, near my side of the bed. 

Nine-forty-five. 

I ponder as to whether or not I should wake her up. If her parents were only away for the weekend, that means they'll probably be back today, so… 

"Rory," I whisper, shaking her a little. "Hey, c'mon, sunshine, get up." 

"Mmm?" She moves closer to me a little as if someone is trying to get her up for school. I try again. "Rory, come on, you should get up. Your parents might be coming home soon." 

She seems to be a little more awake as she mumbles, 

"They're not getting home till---" 

She then suddenly remembers her surroundings. She quickly pulls away from me and sits up, rather sleepily. 

"Oh my God!" She looks a bit sheepish as she continues, "Err, sorry, you know, about…that." 

I wave it off. "It's alright. You were asleep, you didn't know what you were doing." 

"Right." 

We sit there for a moment, regaining our senses and waking up, staring off into space. 

Then she says, 

"Well, we should probably get dressed. Mom and Luke won't be home till about three today, so you have time to leave and everything." 

"Okay then," I say, getting up and stretching. I adjust my boxers a bit before starting a search for my clothes. 

A few minutes later, I am fully clothed and am about to start putting my shoes on when I hear a noise. It almost sounds like… 

"The door!" Rory exclaims. "Who the hell could be coming here now?" She becomes increasingly more frazzled. 

"Hide! Under…. the bed or something, just get yourself out of sight because—" 

"Hey! Hey! Calm down. What if I just stay in this room, you close the door…" She catches on to my train of thought quickly, and says, 

"Oh, right, right. But, remember, not a word." She goes to answer the door, carefully closing the one to her bedroom. I drop down onto the bed and sigh. From inside, I hear Rory's voice. 

"Sookie?" 

"Hi, sweetie!" 

"Hi, wow!" 

"Oh, just look at you, so grown-up!" 

"Oh, c'mere!" 

They are obviously hugging as they continue, 

"It's so nice to see you finally, though. I don't even think I've seen you since I've been home!" 

"Oh, I know. I have so much catching up to do with you!" 

"Of course," Rory replies, a bit uncomfortably, "So, what brings you here so early?" 

"Oh, that's right. I wanted to drop this off at Lorelai's today before she and Luke got home, and I was up early because of Annie, so I figured I'd do it on my way out. It's a sort of joint celebration cake." 

"Sookie, it's beautiful. They're going to love it! But, why joint celebration? I mean, I know, their anniversary, but, is there…something else?" 

"Well of course, the—" The jolly sounding voice stops abruptly. 

"Oh, no, that's right! I wasn't supposed to tell---" 

"What, Sookie? What's going on?" 

"Nope, I didn't say anything, there's nothing else, why would there be something else, there's nothing else! I mean, did Lorelai think there was something else because as far as I know there is certainly---" 

I hear her run out of breath. I smirk. Quite the character, this woman is. 

"Whoa, Sookie, calm down a little. Now, if my mom mentions a 'something else'," Rory says evenly, "I did not hear the something else from you. At least, that's what I'll tell her. Okay? Don't worry about it." 

"Oh, okay, thank God. It was just, it's such a wonderful…'something else'! And it kind of slipped out. Isn't it though?" 

"It is," Rory replies, "It really is." 

I hear them squeal and possibly hug again. 

"Alright, hon, I've got to get going. I left Jackson alone with the kids and Will's sick, so I'll see you all later, alright?" 

"Alright, bye!" 

"Bye! And remember…" 

"Oh, I know," Rory laughs a little. I hear her shut the door. Finally, it's safe for me to walk out of her room. I do so, having put on my shoes, and come up behind her, nearly scaring her to death in the process. 

"Ah! Don't do that please. I've already gotten as shocked as a person can be this morning. God!" She mumbles the last part to herself, more in wonder than frustration. 

"My mother, I am pretty sure, is having another baby. My mother! It sounds so weird…but a good weird. A fantastic weird. I can't believe Sookie found out before me!" 

"Wow," I reply, "Pretty big deal, huh?" 

"That's an understatement." She shakes her head. "I can't believe this! Do you realize I'll be like, the biggest big sister ever? More like oldest, but still! It's amazing." She then seems to notice that it's me she's talking to and looks up abruptly. 

"Oh! Oh, sorry, excitement overload. Had to tell someone." 

"Really? And I here I thought that I already saw you on excitement overload last night when—" 

She glares at me. "Shut your face! I'm overwhelmed here." 

I smirk. "I should be leaving anyway. Traffic's at its best right now." 

"True. Well, then I guess this is goodbye," she says dramatically. 

"I'm sure you're all broken up about that," I quip. 

"Not any more than you!" She says cheekily. 

"Yeah. So…is anything to be said regarding next time?" A thin layer of awkwardness fills the room silently. 

"I guess. Because there's going to be one, apparently." She says. 

"I thought so." 

"Well, so did I." 

"Ok, so then, sometime this week…I'll call—" 

"You don't have this number," she interrupts. 

"Well, then I'll _get it_ from you," I say condescendingly, 

"Or you could just show up unexpectedly around Thursday…the parentals will be at Lydia and Scott Henderson's beach house for a few days," I explain. 

She nods a little, processing the information. 

"I guess I will then, although I can't believe anyone still refers to their parents as 'the parentals'." 

"A classic never dies," I say knowingly. 

"Whatever you need to tell yourself," She replies, "I'll see you later then." 

"Likewise." 

She turns the doorknob expertly and goes to open the door… 

…Just as someone knocks on it. 

"Rory? Are you home?" An elderly yet regal voice questions from outside. I deduct from my basic identifying skills that it has to be her grandmother, Emily Gilmore.

 She looks at me in disbelief. "God, did everyone just feel the need to show up here today without warning? Stay here. Get down behind of the couch, so she won't see you. While I'm talking to her, go out the back. " Her voice is low as she gives the orders. 

I follow her instructions and crouch down behind her couch. From the spot, I hear Rory greet this woman kindly. 

"Grandma! How are you?" 

"Oh, Rory, I'm awfully sorry about this. I would never normally come over uninvited and unannounced like this, but I just had to get of that house!" 

"Don't worry about it. Mom's not home, but I'm here." 

"Which is exactly why I decided to come over. Lorelai mentioned her trip, and I just thought, 'How often do I get the chance to spend some quality time with my granddaughter without the pretense of a social event?' And I came to the conclusion that it's not nearly often enough. So I thought I'd come by and see what you were doing." 

"Oh, well that's so nice of you, Grandma. I don't really have any plans today." She pauses. "Why don't we go out for lunch?" 

"Wonderful idea!" Her grandmother says merrily. "But before we go, do you think I could steal myself a glass of water?" 

"Sure," I hear Rory fumbling around in the kitchen. "So, Grandma, you seem a little tense. What's going on at the house? Everything okay?" 

"That's just it. Everything is in chaos! Ever since your great-grandmother died, your grandfather has been completely absorbed in the lavish funeral plans she so carefully wrote out in her will, down to every last detail. She wanted five different kinds of flowers and a casket polished a color that doesn't even exist! I sympathize with Richard, and of course it pains me to see him so upset, but it's just ridiculous how much money he's spending on the most insignificant things!" She sighs. 

"I probably sound so selfish, but it just feels as though Gran is coming back to haunt me. And since these were her last wishes, there's nothing I can do about it." 

"I don't think you sound that selfish, Grandma. I mean, maybe this is Grandpa's way of grieving, making sure that she's happy and that all of her wishes are taken care of." 

"I suppose you're right. She wasn't all that bad of a woman, either. I just hate to see Richard so distressed. He can't focus on anything, not work, social engagements. I just hope he can be at peace with this soon. You know how close he was to her." I hear them moving towards the living room. 

"Of course. Don't worry; I'm sure he'll be fine soon. He's got you, after all. And all the other people who love him. Mom, me." 

"That is nice to know. What would we ever do without you, Rory?" 

"Well, you probably would've worn tennis shoes a lot later in your life." 

Emily chuckles. "That was so long ago, wasn't it?" 

"It was," Rory agrees. 

"Well, as they say, there's no time like the present! Now let's go get that lunch," she says enthusiastically. 

I hear them move toward where I am stationed and remain perfectly still. I move my eyes to them and see Rory walking with her grandmother, slightly behind her, making sure she is facing forward. She suddenly catches my eye. 'Go' she mouths, motioning with her hand. Emily is too busy complaining, seemingly about her daughter. I get up quickly and quietly, pacing briskly to the back door in the kitchen. Emily doesn't notice a thing. I crouch, again near the table this time, just to be sure.

"…Which reminds me, your mother really needs to start locking that door more often. I could've walked right in, and who knows who else might one day break in here, never mind that strange car parked in your driveway…" Her voice trails off. I hear the door slam behind them. I sigh in relief. _Finally. _

I get up from my position and stretch a little. I then wait until I see the expensive-looking car pull out onto the street until I feel safe enough to go out and get my car, still in the driveway. This makes me suddenly wonder, with a smirk, how Rory will explain that to her grandmother. 

When I reach it, I climb in, welcoming the air conditioning that turns on when I start her up. Yes, my car is my baby. Her name's Marilyn. She purrs as I pull out of the driveway, the sun pouring in through the windows. It's a beautiful day. 

  
God. Talk about a long drive. 

The drive isn't long in distance, of course. A half-hour is pretty much nothing. But everything with Rory is swimming in my head, fresh from last night. I ignore it. Because really, analyzation is like pounding your head against a wall. You get nowhere, and if you do, by some miracle, you then get yourself all the way back to square one by analyzing what you thought of. 

So, I force my mind to other things. I wonder if my parents are home this morning. Ugh. I don't want to think about my parents. It seems as if for the last few years, we've followed a routine in my family. Rumors fly about my father and his various sexual escapades, my mother hears them and gets upset, he swears he didn't do it and buys her forgiveness, she gives in. I, in the process, fight with both of them before getting threatened with physical violence by my dad. Yep, we're the fucking Brady's over at the DuGrey household. 

But, I digress. 

Still, despite my rather tumultuous family life, I always felt like that while my life seemed rather fake and stuffy at times, something always came along and made me realize how good I really had it, despite its flaws. Made me really recognize it. Charisse was one of those things. Then, this was followed by an extremely bad event that sent that realization up in flames. Either way, both of those stand out as significant events, chinks in the wood, something that altered my existence significantly. I sigh. This is how I developed my aforementioned theory. 

I pull up to a busy intersection, waiting irritably for the light to change. I finally get my signal and turn left. 

And as I turn, somehow, I feel that something has changed. 

  
  


_So come to bed, it's getting late/there's no more time for us to waste/ remember how my body tastes/you feel your heart being to race…_


	5. They're Alright

Narcissus 

**Author**: SweetThing

**Chapter**: 5 "They're Alright"

**Disclaimer**: I. Am. Own. I. Am. Own! "I'm sorry, the position has been filled." Click! Ah, the classic comedy of Robin Williams. Can't go wrong there, folks. Heh, seriously, when it comes down to it, I don't own anything, and I never will. Oh, and the title is inspired by the excellent song "Surrender" by Cheap Trick, and the lyrics are from "Burn Baby Burn" by Ash, from _Free All Angels._ Also, I don't "Lola" or any of the Kinks' albums. 

**Author's Note**: I apologize for the delay of this chapter; I've been limited in online time since school started and everything. As always, thanks for all the wonderful reviews, even weeks after I posted chapter four. It means a lot.

**Dedications**: To Elise, for being her usual wonderful awesome beta self, Surya for putting up with my pregnancy (and other, lol) questions, and Susie for giving some great and much-needed advice.  And Lessa, my namesake who rules and is a smut queen. Hee. I love you all, ladies. And of course, everyone who reviewed and is following the story. You all rock my world. 

Vicious bitter words/becoming more and more cruel/But you always take me back/and let me lick your wounds…

I plop onto my mother's couch, waiting for her to show herself off. Her and Luke are supposed to be at my grandparents' in an hour, and, after about forty-five minutes of the two of us rushing haphazardly through her closet, I think I've finally found the perfect outfit for her to wear in her…well, state, right now.

"Mom?" I'm pretty sure she's looking at herself in the mirror in her bedroom, bemoaning over the weight she's gained over the past two months. Even though, at the most, she's about ten pounds heavier. While she doesn't mind the reason for the sudden fluctuation, she still grumbles over the fact that her favorite pair of jeans would now take a battle with Luke's stainless-steel pliers to button, never mind zipper. 

"One minute, hon!" She replies, and I hear the sound of scrambling around for something or other (most likely one of the pairs of shoes we picked out to go with the skirt) until she walks down the stairs, clad in a simple knee-length skirt, black to make her look slimmer, and a flowing peasant blouse with a tiny floral pattern. I smile. Perfect. Understated, yet undeniably Lorelai. 

"So, what do you think? Acceptable? We are talking about Emily and Richard, here. I am sure that on this, my first pregnant and not out-of-wedlock appearance in their household, they wish to have me dressed in the attire of a proper lady, even being indisposed as I am." She has adopted an English accent as she finishes, and curtsies primly to complete the effect.

I giggle. "Exactly, which is why wearing your sweatpants and 'sex kitten' shirt wasn't the answer," I say, referring to her earlier suggestion that she just go in those, as she was uncomfortable in almost all of her regular pants, and she didn't feel like changing her shirt.

"True," she turns around, channeling Kate Moss without the stick figure appearance, as I laugh and reply,

"You look great, Mom. Even for a pregnant lady," I tease. 

Lorelai mock-glares at me. "You better watch it, missy, because in a few months I might just kill you for saying that. My hormones are already wreaking havoc in here. Yesterday I cried at a Wal-Mart commercial! I never cry because of TV. When Murphy Brown ended, I laughed! I mean, come on, who really hugs five people at once? Totally ridiculous." 

"Says the woman who watched Dawson's Creek religiously for all six seasons," I quip, "And bawled when Jen got killed off."

"It was the finale! And she was the best character on that show!" She defends herself quickly, as her explanation has been used over and over for the past few years. I smirk to myself. "Alright, Mom," I say then, dismissing the subject, "I think it's time for you to do your makeup." I nod towards the clock, mounted on the wall next to the door by Luke a few years back.

She follows my eyes and notices the time. "Dammit, you're right. Plus my hair isn't even near done," she runs a hand through her towel-dried, half-damp locks before jogging back up the stairs. "Thanks babe!" she calls, and almost runs into Luke in the process, who's headed in the opposite direction. He notices her slightly disheveled appearance, never missing a beat as he half yells, 

"Lorelai, if we want to get there on time we have to leave in fifteen minutes!" 

"Great, plenty of time," my mother responds as she reaches the top step. Luke rolls his eyes, but I can tell there's something else beneath the annoyance. There always is. The two of them, they just…work. I'm envious sometimes, just a little, of what they have. To have someone who I know, without a doubt will always be there for me, in the sense of a romantic relationship, anyway, is actually something I once thought I was experiencing. 

Until it all blew up in my face. I sigh.  Thoughts of Steve are rarer now, but every so often something will remind me of him, and the ache comes back. I'm not sure if this whole thing with Tristan is the cause of it, nor do I want to be. Because that will mean the bastard was right, and even though I never verbally disagreed with him, I still wasn't sure it would really work, and I don't want to see the expression on his face, don't want to hear what he'd have to say if he "won" with this particular issue. It sickens me, it really does. I frown and roll my own eyes as I get up and head towards the kitchen. 

From upstairs, I hear the slam of a makeup case. "Sweets, can I use some of that new eye shadow you bought the other day?" My mother yells down the stairs. I grin. Lorelai will most likely make them late. "Sure, it's on my dresser," I reply.  From the living room, putting his shoes on, Luke calls up, 

"How late should I tell them we'll be?" 

"Honey, I told you, I have plenty of time! Were not going to be late," she says, as she runs back down the stairs.

"Lorelai, it's ten till and your hair's not even done," he retorts. Over the years, he has become accustomed to the extended amount of time it takes my mother (and me, the older I get) to get ready.

She pauses. "At least ten minutes," she decides, and hurries into my room. Luke sighs knowingly and gets up to find the phone. As he passes, he says, "If she even wants to stop somewhere…" 

"I'd be prepared, just in case," I reply, searching the kitchen for something to eat. Lately, Lorelai has been craving weird foods, as almost all women do during a pregnancy, but the strange thing is, instead of craving sweets or some weird type of taco only found in the Southern Hemisphere, she wants actual food. The type that's good for you. Hard as it is to believe, a few weeks back, my mother couldn't do anything else until she had a salad with Italian dressing. And the other day, she made her poor husband drive around for about an hour, looking for a good sub place. Our fridge, for the first time in Gilmore history, has fruit and veggies in it. There's cereal that does not contain ungodly amounts of sugar, beverages that don't have any carbonation, and frozen stuff that does not consist of pizza or French fries. Frankly, I'm just waiting for the X-Files theme to play. 

Luke sighs. "The sad thing is, you're absolutely right. I better bring a little extra money, just in case." After he finds the phone and finishes the call to my grandparents, he goes back upstairs, continuing the sequence of stair ascending and descending that's been going on since five'o clock tonight. 

A few minutes later, they end it, and Mom and Luke come down them one last time, together and ready to go at last. I smile. They look fantastic. And since this is no ordinary dinner at the elder Gilmore's, but a small "gathering of friends" as Grandpa likes to call it, they are expected to. Mom would've made up an excuse, but since they haven't seen her or Luke since they found out she was pregnant, Emily put Mom on a guilt trip she couldn't really dodge. 

As they approach the door, they tell me the basics,

"We'll be home—" Luke starts, 

"Early, as early as possible," Lorelai finishes for him.

Luke gives her a look, but continues, 

"Just, you know the drill, make sure the doors are locked, that sort of thing."

"Right," Mom smiles at him slightly, "And we're taking the Jeep, but if you want Luke's truck, by all means---" 

I laugh softly. "Somehow I don't think that's going to be necessary. I'm just going to stay in tonight, maybe watch a movie. I'm pretty tired."

They look approving. "Alright, well, have fun," Lorelai replies.

"You too. You look great," I assure them, "Just tell Grandma and Grandpa that true beauty takes time."

"You think I was going to tell her anything else?" Lorelai laughs, "And with me being pregnant and all, that's at least an extra ten minutes right there," She adds as Luke starts to open the door. 

"Alright, Miss Connecticut, let's go," Luke says a bit wearily as he smiles and bids me farewell.

"Bye, Rory."

"Bye Luke! Bye Mom." 

"See ya later, Babe," she returns as they exit the house. I sigh, for no particular reason, as I hear the Jeep pull out of the driveway. I fall onto the couch once more. I am officially in for the night.  

*

 Four hours later, it seems I'm not after all, as none other than Tristan himself follows me into the house.

"Tell me again why I had to pick you up, in Luke's twenty-year-old truck, of all cars?" I ask rhetorically, annoyed as we enter the living room.

"Hey, it's not my fault my car fucking broke down in the middle of nowhere, alright? Plus, I was coming over here anyway." He retorts.

I wave him off. "Okay, okay, don't get all hot and bothered, just…get in the house, whatever."

"You forget, O Undefiled One, that that's your job." He replies lewdly as we reach my bedroom. I shoot him a dirty look as I fall wearily onto my bed, arms splayed out in front of me.

"Alright, listen. This isn't going to be some one-hour tantric marathon, because I—" I yawn, "Am extremely tired. So, come on, Don Juan. Take me—" I say through my second yawn, "Take me now." I finish with as much of a dramatic flourish as possible. Then, Tristan seems to humor me a bit as he lands beside me on his stomach, halfway so that his head is near my hips.

"Wow, you really know what to say to get me going, don't you?" He jokes. I snicker, slightly slap happy.

"Well, I have had like, what, two months now to figure that one out? I think I've got it down." I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh really?" Tristan responds, his voice challenging. "Because I happen to be a very complicated man. Not just anything turns me on, you know. I'm a particular person with particular ways and very particular needs---"

"Ha!" I snort, and start laughing harder than I expected to. "That is such bullshit! Tristan, you---" I start, getting a second wind as I prop myself up on my elbow to face him, "Are exactly like every other guy. You're so easy, and not just in this particular state, mind you, it's not even funny. The slightest thing will get you all excited and you'll start jumping all over me or beg me until you get your way, like a freaking toddler." I pause with realization. "Hey! Now I know what Fred Durst was talking about. What a perfect analogy." I finish, my laughter dying down. I sigh, "Oh wow, was that great."

Tristan rolls his eyes. "Somewhere, Fred Durst is getting off on your flattering complement."

I glare at him. "You're just mad because I called you on something you know is true, but you're too macho or whatever other sexist word to admit it."

He lets out a breath, annoyed. "Just because you think I, and all guys are easy doesn't mean you, and all women in general, aren't either." He finishes with conviction.

"Please," I say, "Women aren't the ones who watch porno's and masturbate to random celebrities." 

"No, you read romance novels and get off on those sappy sensitive type guys who aren't even that good-looking!"

"Oh my God! You don't know the first thing about what a woman's really attracted to in a guy!" I reply in disbelief, "If a person is kind, caring, and has a good, strong _personality_---" I emphasize the word by getting in his face and saying it loudly, "Then yes, it makes them more attractive to me, even if they aren't the most handsome or cute or don't have the best body. But sappiness is not a turn-on! I swear, you males take one thing and twist it into something totally different. You need better comprehension skills." 

He groans and rubs his temples, seemingly painted into a corner. "Look, spare me the surly Vagina Monologue, will you? I get it: Women, Good. Smart. Mature. Men, bad. Stupid. Masses of hormones." 

"Well good, then. As long as you can process that. I know how hard it is for you," I shoot back.

"Are you sure you're not a lesbian, Lizzy Borden?" Tristan says irritably, but the obnoxious tone to his voice is there solely for my discomfort.

"Believe me, nobody else makes me question my sexuality more than you,'" I snap back in disgust.  

He looks slightly incredulous as I turn away from him, and lie on my back, closing my eyes. I hear him mumble something, and the next thing I know…

He is moving. 

At first I don't make anything of it, thinking that he's just shifting positions, but then I feel him move closer to me, forward on the bed. I tense up a little. I'm not quite sure what he's trying to pull, but there's no way in a frozen-over hell I'm going to let it get to me. He finally starts to speak again,

"Rory, come on, please?"

"There's no way," I reply haughtily, "Not after the way you just---" 

Then suddenly, I feel his hand, slightly cold from the air conditioning, on the hem of my shirt. My eyes snap open, and I instantly protest,

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing, jackass? If you think you're smooth or clever or something than you are sorely—"

But he hears none of it, and then I feel his breath on the exposed skin of my stomach, and he quickly starts kissing the aforementioned area. "Please----please---please---please?" He says, interrupting himself with the bussing of my abdomen. He pouts like a child. I am flabbergasted. Who does he think he is? I, in turn, start up my complaining again,

"I swear to God, you're impossible, you know that? You can't just start doing this and think I'm just going to cave like a pup-tent in the wind and let you—"

"Oh, I beg to differ," He replies, still not stopping the ministrations on my stomach.

_"Please_ do both of us a favor and just quit while you're ahead before you embarrass yourself! No wait, scratch that, you already have."  Still, he won't cease his fire. Ugh, I don't believe he's doing this. It's totally immature and manipulative, not to mention that when this is over, I'm going to have his saliva all over my midsection.

And he's practically pouting, for Christ's sake. Finally, I come to the conclusion that's he's not going to give this up. 

"Aughhhh!" I groan, "God, I hate you, you know that DuGrey? Hate you! And I swear, if you even think that---"  
 

 A knowing smirk fills his features, and his expression says something utterly detestable, something akin to: "I came, I saw, I _conquered!"_  And then, I am finally pushed to the proverbial limit.  

"Fine, you know what? Have it your way. But I can assure you---no, I take that back, I will _see_ to it, that this will be the worst sex you've ever had. And you--"

"Ah-ah-ah—" he stops me with his hand—"We both know that the only thing that truly needs to be said is that I was right---," he looks up to point at me, "And you were not," he finishes condescendingly, and returns to my stomach, seemingly too lazy to move. I blow out some air resignedly, saying,

"Just because you took advantage of me at a time when I was tired and more susceptible to well, giving in to you, does not mean that women are the horny miscreatins that so many men are," I finish defiantly, a smug smile appearing on my face. 

"Whatever you need to fall to asleep to at night, you sex fiend, you." Tristan looks at me suggestively, an expression I've seen on his face so many times now that I've almost become accustomed to it. He finishes up on my stomach as I shake my head wearily, and wait for him to come up to my normal level, to start the routine, ride with the broken-in saddle.  

Until I realize that his mouth is moving lower. I draw in a breath, my body reacting to this realization before my brain has time to process it. Before, he was doing it mostly as a joke, most likely to get me to lighten up, but something about it has changed. I look down at him demandingly, and see that he's at a spot just below my belly button. I don't whether I'm imagining it or not, but he pauses for a moment, and feeling my reaction, his mouth moves further southward. 

I almost gasp. A feeling of extreme warmth covers me from my waist down. There's the feeling that's growing, thriving inside of me, threatening to reach full height at any moment. My tiredness reacts to this, putting me in a lazy, blissfully apathetic state that urges me to just let him do whatever he's going to do, or wants for that matter. And for a second, I give in to it. 

His mouth is inches, centimeters away. He pauses for what seems like an eternity. My breathing is becoming baited yet shallow, heavy yet light, and I am scared and confused and I am sad and I'm going to lose it and I don't even know why all at once, frozen with fear but melting, apprehensive but anticipating. The feeling in the room, the seriousness, the steady quiet, overwhelms me. This is so much. This is too heavy. My mind is swirling with questions as to why this is happening, but the emotions drown them out almost completely. Yet it feels strangely…familiar? Wait, what's going on?  This is---

Not right. I am suddenly overcome with the realization that this is not what I need, that we don't do this. We shouldn't be doing this. This is where the line is drawn. I quickly look down to protest, and Tristan meets my eye with an expression I've never seen on him before. His hand grazes the edge of the fabric near my exposed stomach. "Do you want me to…?" 

I shake my head quickly, "No." He nods and folds the elastic band back up, pulls up my pajama pants from where he had been slowly discarding them just minutes before. He seems to understand what I have just come to know, and as I tie adjust them and tie them back up, he turns around on his back and distances himself from me a little. The intense atmosphere lifts, and I sigh in relief. 

But I still don't know what to say. A few minutes of a normal silence passes, until Tristan breaks it with,

"Well, under normal circumstances I'd leave now, but you're my ride home. No pun intended." 

I roll my eyes, probably number 1,253,765,690 on the roll-dometer. "Now that's refreshing." I smile a little in spite of myself, "But then you know, I was just shocked you didn't resort to the double meaning  in circumstance, as stupid and irrelevant as it is." I'm not really serious, but I use the weak joke anyway. It is glaringly obvious that girls take longer to get back to normal after this sort of thing, even if the said "sort of thing" didn't actually happen. 

"Oh, come on! That's just tasteless, even for me. Plus, you know I save my best, not to mention grotesque, innuendos for you, revered Queen of The Frigid Earth." 

"How did I know that?" I retort, getting annoyed again. 

He grins evilly. "Well, you know me. I aim to piss you off. It's one of the greater joys in my life."

"You do realize how sad that is, don't you?" 

"I prefer to think of it as more of a hobby. I can quit whenever I want," he says defensively, mimicking a drug addict or a heavy smoker.

"Hmm. No, I don't think so, you're definitely a junkie."

"Nah," he mock-scoffs.

I shake my head, disagreeing, "Sad but true."

Tristan seems to ponder this for a moment. "Eh, maybe I am. But, according to you, I'm also a nymphomaniac, so where does that leave us?"  

"Fucked. Extremely and sincerely fucked." I decide on with finality. Once I hear my own words, I can't help laughing a little. 

"You know, that's another sad thing right there," He responds. 

"What do you mean?"

"That's exactly what we were going into this whole thing." 

I pause. "Wow, we are really pathetic."

Tristan shrugs, "Well, no more pathetic than we were then, so that's something, I guess," He pauses, almost mock-thoughtfully. After a moment, "Yes, I do believe we're making progress." 

I laugh suddenly, unsure of the exact reason why. "Funny, I wasn't aware this was a twelve-step program." 

"Oh yeah. I have plans for it, big plans. Pamphlets, public appearances, TV spots. We're going to go national with this, babe. Maybe even a book deal," he jokes, then seems to indulge himself by continuing, running his hand across the air, "_Just Sex? Hell Yes!_ _The Transcendent Cure For The Broken Heart._"

At that point, I lose it. I'm cracking up, blaming it on my exhausted state as I say, "Exactly! Sleep with a person you can't stand!" I finish his headline-slash-book title for him.

He joins in my laughter as he adds,

"_But_ who is also in the same heart-broken position, mind you." My hysteria subsides for a second as I have a stroke of comic genius, remembering his expression from earlier,

"No pun intended!" 

Then Tristan can hardly breathe, and we are in tears as I clutch my stomach, struggling to calm down. 

"Did your office arch-enemy's latest bum dump her ass, again? Jump her in the office and hold on tight!"

"But remember, the hatred must be mutual. Exhibit A: Drew Carey and Mimi Bobek from the popular comedy series---" I can't even finish.  

Another round of hysteria ensues as that image crosses my mind and apparently, his. I suddenly realize that that is, in a nutshell, us, and I'm about to verbalize it when he says, 

"Oh my God, that is us! We are two overweight underpaid TV characters. We are so fucked up!" He gets out as he wipes his eyes. "I mean, look at us, it's—"

"I know," I break in, "I don't think about it most of the time, for this exact reason. This, just---" I pause "This whole thing is just so…" I gesture with my hands, spreading them out widely in circular motions, not finding the right words to express what I'm saying.

"Oh believe me, I know," Tristan comprehends, "A year ago, if someone told me I'd be here, I'd have directed them to the nearest de-tox clinic." He shakes his head, but then something sad overshadows his features, something I know all too well, from my own experience.

 Remembrance. Of the bitter persuasion. You'd think the correct adjective is "bittersweet", but you'd be wrong. There is nothing sweet about the expression this kind of recollection evokes. The vivid feelings and thoughts of the worst times in the departed relationships resurface for a moment, or possibly the exact moment you knew there was no hope for a sudden reconciliation, like at the end of the Meg Ryan and Sandra Bullock movies you watch to cheer yourself up in your time of mourning. But of course, they never help. Are they even supposed to help? They never worked for me, not that I expected them to. I just…when things with Steve were truly over, I just didn't know what to do with myself. So I did all the customary remedies, trying to fill the void that haunted the inside of me (and still does sometimes), making my id a very dark place to be. I knew it was normal, but I hated it.

Oh my God, even in my thoughts I ramble. I shake my head and try to attend the silence that has fallen in the wake of Tristan's one-way trip down what a more sentimental person would call memory lane. I, a slightly _less_ sentimental person, just know it as relationship hell. You know, it's weird. I used to consider myself pretty sentimental, I even wanted a traditional wedding, with beautiful white lilies everywhere and hundreds of guests, and an elegant white dress, and… But the devastation over Steve and the Tristan situation has brought out the realist in me, I guess. 

Finally, I look in his direction. He is staring into space, absorbed in nothing, yet transfixed. After a moment of thought, I say,

"You know, I think that was the first time we've ever mutually laughed at something," Tristan is a bit startled as he snaps out of his reverie and rubs his eyes. He chuckles. 

"I noticed. And it wasn't at the other's expense, either. Well, sort of. I don't know. Jesus." He sighs tiredly, the weight of his silence bogging him down. I echo it. Then suddenly, comprehension strikes me from behind, and I now know exactly what he's going to do next. It's the agenda. Slightly different on this occasion, but understandably so.

The rubbing of the temples. 

The stretching of his arms. 

The look that makes me want to do him extreme bodily harm.

And finally, the chose de resistance. The clincher. 

He turns to look at me again, back to normal. Then he speaks,

"So, Rizzo, you putting out tonight or what?"

The line. 

The reluctance. "Why do I—"?

A snort. "Now, now, quibbling only wastes energy, which you need for…obvious reasons." The leer.

I am at a loss for words, to put it plainly. A sound leaves my mouth, my head is shaking, but I just don't have the anything in me tonight to try to fight him off. Plus, this revolts me to say, but the weariness is making me shall we say…slightly…stimulated. 

Alright, fine, I'm turned on. I have been a bit out of sorts lately due to my monthly cycle or whatever you'd like to call it, and since it's due in about a week or so, my hormones have been on overload. Ugh. This is sick; He has me right where he wants me. Not that he knows this, of course. Ha! Like I'd tell him. Inwardly, I smile evilly. If he knew what I know right now, he'd be bouncing off the walls. 

I look at Tristan, divulging nothing.

"I stand by my earlier comment," I say snottily, "But I do have to ask, what is it with you and all the name calling tonight?"

He smirks nastily. "What are we, five? I wasn't aware you used kindergarten tactics, Rory." 

I quickly throw a throw pillow at him, hard. "You know what I mean! Undefiled One? Ice Queen?"

"Revered Queen of The Frigid Earth," he corrects me.

"Like it matters," I reply in aggravation, and continue, "But Rizzo? Come on, even you can do better than that. I was sure you'd at least get my stereotype right and go for Sandy, or even Patty Simcox"

He suddenly bursts out laughing. "Patty Simcox? Yeah, right! You'd need about a month's worth of speed to even remotely resemble her. But," he continues, "There is a method to my madness. Sandy's the goody-goody girl, and normally, yes, that would be your Grease character, but since that beloved piece of pop-culture mainly revolves around one particular thing—" he stops to give me a knowing glance---"You are Rizzo.  You're not a virgin, obviously, or a prude, well, not especially, and I don't have to get you to wear a ring to get you to do it. You just do, it's a given. You didn't have to turn into a whore in leather pants to prove it. It's you, not to mention your jaded nature." Tristan finishes with a grin, waiting practically in glee for my pissed off reaction. 

I wrinkle my nose. I'd be pissed off, and disgusted, and I actually am, obviously, but I'm used to this. 

"You know, that is insulting and derogatory and…oh my God, I'm a sure thing." I realize rather calmly, and my head drops in defeat. I'm done. I despise it when this happens_._

_"_Exactly! How right on was I?" He exclaims happily, victorious. I look over at him, annoyed and apathetic. "Wow." A quick silence descends as he meets my eye, our faces about an inch or more apart.__

"So—"

"Eh,"

"Ro-or,"

"Uhg—fine,"__

And that's it. After a series of mumbled phrases he finds my mouth and tongue and I'm spent for the night, as his hips are connected roughly against mine as he practically falls on top of the bed, and me respectively. I am still annoyed as he fumbles to unclasp a bra I'm not wearing and bites my neck ever-so-stealthily even though he knows I can't stand it, and I just don't like the state I'm in right now. It gets harder and harder to concentrate as the seconds pass by, but I gather that I'm tired, PMS-ing, and thinking about Steve like I used to when I was raw from our departure, and took about four naps per day. And I hate it, I know it's temporary but I hate my emotions and I just want them to quit. I want a clear, normal, un tampered with state of contentment, so I get into that particular frame of mind.

And after I do, all that's there is what Tristan and I are doing. So I jump on it. The progression of fooling around to actual sex (very short in this case) is evolving, and I suddenly realize that I've been lost in thought this whole time, but still seem to be doing what I'm supposed to do, because at that moment he groans, snapping me back to reality. Then I feel everything again as my attention is held hostage by it. It almost overwhelms me, but after a second or two it's just like the usual. I let out a breath, and I am suddenly reminded of an event that happened earlier tonight, and that is the absolute last thing I want to think about, so I crush his mouth to mine urgently, hoping he'll get the message. He seems taken by surprise at my sudden strong response, but over the past month and a half, our relations, for lack of a better word, have become more of a "you scratch my back I'll scratch yours" kind of deal. It's still the same as it was, but we know what the other one responds to the most, and we can read the other's signals now. It's sick, but that's how it goes, I guess. 

So that is why he obliges me by discarding more clothing and speeding up the process. I know full well he only does this to get something back in return, but I don't really care. On another day? Yes, possibly. But right now, the only thing I really care about is getting rid of this feeling inside me that won't seem to leave. Stopping Mr. Estrogen's wild ride on the Menstrual Express. 

And I am selfish. Jesus, what's wrong with me?

I am ashamed. I am vulnerable. And I'm officially done feeling any internal sentiments. He's above me now.

So I drown.

Needless to say, he didn't go near my stomach.

*

The next day, I wake up hours before Tristan and quickly take a Midol. The reason I am up so early is due to extremely annoying cramps, and I have to get him out of the house before Luke gets up, only a few hours away. I sneak into our kitchen, find the pills and swallow two of them. Closing the bottle up, I mentally check it off my list. After putting on some coffee, I move on to the next task: getting my fellow offender in the other room to get his ass out of bed. I pad back to my bedroom, where sure enough, Tristan is snoring peacefully (if there is such a thing) on his side of the bed. I say this because ever since the arrangement started, he's kept to the left side, never moving, even in his sleep, hardly. I figure it must be some male territory complex. I sigh, in desperate need of caffeine, as I make my way over to him. His snoring is gratingly consistent; conveying that there will have to be some physical force involved in rousing him.

"Tristan," I say semi-urgently, making sure it's within his range of hearing. "Come on, get up. Consider me a rooster. Well, it's probably hard to because I can't make the noise a rooster makes, but, come on, imagine a rooster. It's time to wake up." The last part is considerably louder. He stirs slightly.

"That's it, rise and shine. You can nap later. Up, I say!" I'm trying everything here. Finally, he turns to face me restlessly, and shifts. A groan escapes his mouth. I hold my breath. "Now you've got the idea. Come on, you know you're awake. If you're faking it I can assure you there will be extreme bodily harm involved!" I tell him in a singsong voice normally reserved for Sookie's two-month-old, Annie. I sigh. It seems it's not going to work as he turns back towards the wall. I then realize he must be in the middle of a dream or something. "Tristan, please, for the love of---"

"Charisse…" My mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. I cringe. Shoot. If this is the kind of dream I think it is, then----

Oh, God! I have to get him up. Now! "Tristan, get your lazy ass out of bed before I sue you for dry-cleaning fees!" 

His eyes slowly open. Upon seeing me, he looks vaguely disappointed. "Jesus, what the hell's going on?" He asks groggily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He immediately checks my clock after, and when he's done he turns back to me in disbelief, still getting his bearings back.

"Fuck, Rory, it's not even six a.m. yet!" 

I sigh, irritated. "I know, Rip Van Winkle, but Luke gets up extremely early to open the diner, even when he's been out late, so I have drive you home before he does. Now, come on, get your clothes, splash some water on your face, and let's go," I finish. I then exit the room to brush my teeth and do something to make my hair look decent, just so no one mistakes me for that crazy cat-woman who lives in an alley on the edge of the state line, hoping he's starting to dress.

When I come back, Tristan is indeed, thankfully, half-dressed, looking for his shirt and stretching kind of simultaneously. I snort. If there's one thing I've learned about him, it's that he is definitely not a morning person. I use this time to run to the kitchen to get the coffee out of the maker. I take comfort in the fragrant beverage as I find a mug and start nursing it. 

I then return to the doorway, where Tristan emerges and turns to me. "Alright," he yawns, "Drive, Miss Daisy." I lead the way out of the house, coffee and keys in hand. As we walk, I can't help egging him on a little. 

"Wow, I see your movie referenced quips are pretty weak this morning," I say as we approach the front door.

"You woke me up at the crack of dawn, what do you expect? If I weren't so sleep-deprived I'd be flawless, as usual," He replies half-jokingly. "Speaking of which, is there any possible way to get some caffeine in my veins, here?" 

I glare at him. "Why didn't you say something before? I just made some!" I gesture towards my cup.  "Didn't you smell it, or I don't know, _see me_ carrying this out of the house?" 

"Obviously not! I told you, I'm half-awake here. I don't usually drink regular coffee, I buy the insanely expensive flavored stuff from Starbucks or some equally trendy place," He says sarcastically, then sighs and reveals the true reason. "Plus, I thought you only made enough for yourself, alright? Jeez."

I look towards the sky, begging whoever's up there for strength. "You know what, forget it. I'll go back and pour you some," I say evenly, and start towards the house. He looks surprised, but shrugs and gets into the Jeep. 

When I make the exodus out of the house, for the second time, mug in tow, Tristan has started the car and has the air-conditioning blasting. As I buckle my seatbelt, I shiver, handing the mug to him. 

"God, is it cold enough in here for you?" 

"Hey, it was a friggin' sauna in here. Did you want me to suffocate? Wait, don't answer that," He decides, taking the mug. "Ah, sustenance."

I look at him weirdly. "I didn't realize you had a thing for my coveted beverage," I pull out of the driveway and check my blindspot as he replies,

"When I'm rudely awaken at an ungodly hour of the morning I do," he says, never missing a beat.

I roll my eyes. "Touché."

"Mm-hmm," he mumbles knowingly as he takes a sip. As I drive, I feel the immediate need for background noise and fumble with the radio. When I settle on a station that plays everything from Stone Temple Pilots to Bjork, a few minutes pass as I reach the town's limits. As soon as commercials start, though, he reaches out to change it and I immediately protest.

"Hey!" I push his hand away forcefully, "My car, so we listen to my music, buddy. Plus, there is no way in hell I'm going to be subjected to Pink Floyd and Queen for the next forty minutes."

He throws an irritated glance in my direction. "Would you relax for a second, please? First of all, I was just looking for other music to play while your indie-crap station went to commercial. I had every intention of turning it back. I'm sure it's on your presets,"

"Uhuh, okay," I say, unconvinced as I merge onto the interstate. He continues,

"And furthermore, I don't only listen to bands of that genre, you know."

I snort. "Sure. Come on, Tristan, I've been in the car with you. I've seen your CD collection. It's typical guy music. Nothing more, nothing less."

He wordlessly goes through the radio with the seek button, and stops at a classic rock station, where a song has just ended. When the next one starts up, I immediately recognize the opening chords. 

"Ooh, turn this up!" I order him. "I love--." Meanwhile, at the same time, he's exclaiming, "Okay, that's it, I'm stopping here because I---"   

We both stop for a second. "You like this song?" He asks in disbelief. 

"Yeah, the Kinks are great," I explain, as the song continues, '_She walked up to me and she asked me to dance/ I asked her her name and in a dark brown voice she said Lola/ L-O-L-A Lola.'._

It's a classic song, and I remember first hearing it and then finding out how controversial it was when it was first released. 

Tristan is triumphant as he says, "See? You're not the only one with supposed good taste. I happen to like the Kinks myself. I even own an album or two of theirs."

I look at him doubtfully. "Yeah, I'm sure you have their greatest hits, but that doesn't mean anything. What about the influential albums?_ The Green Preservation Society, The Decline And Fall—"_

_"…Of The British Empire?_" he finishes for me, "Yeah, I've got both of those, not to mention _Something Else by The Kinks _and _Give—"_

"Okay, okay! You made your point; you have semi-good taste in music. Now just turn up the radio and shut your mouth, please." I sigh. He complies smugly, and I unconsciously mouth the words to "Lola", until Tristan decides to sing along out loud, around the third verse. 

"_'Well we drank champagne and danced all night   
Under electric candlelight   
She picked me up and sat me on her knee   
And said dear boy won't you come home with me   
Well I'm not the world's most---'"_

He's interrupted though, because at this point I'm in hysterics, almost drowning out the song. "Alright, you know your 70's bands, I'll give you that, but please, don't ever sing in my vicinity again!" I gasp, struggling to regain my normal breathing patterns at his warbling, hopelessly off-key voice. 

He glares at me half-seriously, "Hey! I suppose you can do better?"

"Better than _that_!" I exclaim, "But whatever, shut up, I like this part." At this point, the song is almost blaring as Ray Davies wraps up his tale of a seductive transvestite. I, not caring what I sound like now that I've heard Tristan's, err, unique set of pipes, sing with him.

"Oh, so you can sing but I can't? I see how it is." He mocks hurt as the song's last verse starts up, and sings just to spite me, "'_Well I'm not the world's most masculine man, but I know what I am and I'm glad I'm a man and so's Lola, Lo-lo-lo-lo-Lola!'" _At this point, we are both singing rather loudly, trying to drown the other one out. When it ends, we are both laughing at the irony of the song's message.

"Such a touching tale, that song." Tristan jokes, pretending to wipe a tear away as another song starts up, by the Who this time. 

I giggle. "Isn't it though? It just makes you want to salute every young closeted homosexual who's ever gone to a club."

He laughs, raising his cup of coffee as I stop at an intersection. "To the naïve gay boys!" 

I follow suite, and our mugs clink together, "Cheers!" Our laughter dies down then, and I shake my head as I get a green light. As irritating as he is, at least he can appreciate some good music. The ride continues, us arguing every so often when the radio plays a song the other doesn't like. Then we are silent for a long time, and I am slightly weirded out. I shrug it off. This reminds me of something, and I, since I am a bit curious, inquire,

"So, this morning, when I was trying to get you up, I don't know if you know this but, umm…"

Tristan looks up at the sound of my voice, "Oh God, was I talking in my sleep again? A few of the guys have told me I do that," he explains, "It can be humiliating, depending on what I say." 

"Yeah, you were a little bit," I say, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, "Actually, you mentioned---"

"Charisse, right?" He sighs. "Jesus. Yep, I did have a dream with her in it, now that I think about it. I always think I'm going to stop having stuff like that happen to me, you know? That this is the day I'm going to stop thinking about her, and be totally over her. But I think---" He pauses. "I think that something like this never completely goes away, you know? Like when someone dies. You heal, but they're always with you somehow. I just wish it wasn't so painful." He averts his eyes toward the window. While I completely understand him on this, I also feel some remorse—shocking myself---that this is the first time he's ever felt like this, that he ever really lost something. It's probably the hardest time, because everything is so new. I clear my throat.

"You know, eventually, it stops hurting. I mean, of course that person---Charisse, is always going to be a part of you, but in a while, all the memories and the experience of everything will stop being bad. I'm not lying, I promise. I'm not that cruel." I smile wanly. 

He meets my eyes. "Well, you can be pretty cruel, I don't know…"

I reach over and smack him on the arm. "Alright, alright! Touchy, touchy. Seriously though," he continues, sincere this time, "Thanks." 

I nod and shrug. "No problem."

The drive goes on in a peaceful lull of conversation, and at this point I'm just about to enter Hartford. As I get closer to his house, he shifts, prepared to leave the Jeep. Here and there we end up chatting a little, but we're basically done with voluntary co-existence. After all, we won't have to be in the same car anymore in a minute. 

When I pull up in front of his house, I put the car in park. "Well, that's it. End of the line, DuGrey. Now beat it." Tristan unbuckles as he replies, "I didn't realize that domination was one of your fetishes. I'll be sure to make note of that for—" 

I interrupt him rudely and a little desperately, "Get out of the car!" He leers crudely as he shuts his door, then says,

"Well, I must say, doll, it's been a slice."

I shake my head resignedly. "As always." He walks around to my window and gets in one last jab. 

"Thanks for the lift, Jeeves." 

"Finally, he gets the movie reference right! Believe me, if I had a hat I'd be tipping it," I reply in annoyance and amusement, despite myself.

"Oh, and what I wouldn't give to see you in one of those old-fashioned southern-style dresses." Tristan says amiably, to his credit (the first and last time I will ever say that). 

I snort. "Why, because of the cleavage?" 

"Because of the discomfort over those corsets they had to wear! See, I'm not that transparent." He quips proudly, "Bye, Rory."

I roll my eyes as he starts towards the walkway of his house. "Bye, Tristan." He gives me one last salute and is gone, into the ridiculously expensive mansion. I frown in astonishment as I turn into his street, over a couple of things: the fact that Tristan and I actually have something (however small) besides the obvious in common, and at how I drove at six in the morning, on about four hours of sleep, and didn't get into an accident. Yet. God bless the lazy, over-sleeping American who doesn't go out anywhere in the wee hours of the morning. 

I head onto the highway, my mind basically blank. The only thing that's on my mind is getting back into bed unnoticed, and then holing up in the living room until tonight, when Louise and Madeline are carting me to some party thrown by Paris's longtime boyfriend, Daniel Shepard. I smile at the thought of the two of them. Paris met him last winter at an art gallery she brought her roommate to, to expose her to some culture. They clicked immediately, and the rest, as they say, cheesy though it is, is history. They've been dating ever since, and she's even been thinking about moving in with him. Apparently, they've been debating on whether or not to take that next step in the relationship. He's really great, and is as no-nonsense as she is, something no other guy has brought to the table. I've never seen her so happy.

And at times, it has made me sick. 

I quickly shake the thought away. Not anymore. It's bullshit. I curse Mother Nature internally and concentrate on the road. After a minute or two, my mind starts to wander, and I briefly wonder where Tristan will be going tonight, or if he's doing anything. Most likely there's some party or he's meeting some of his cronies somewhere. I nod to myself. 

Just then, I hear thunder, and it slowly begins to drizzle. I groan. 

"Wonderful, I'd love to drive home in the fucking pouring rain!" I say out loud in frustration, and put on the window wipers. I turn up the radio, where a Monkees song is on its eightieth chorus or so. I try the other stations quickly, but find them all in the middle of commercial breaks. Even better! The road is getting increasingly monotonous, the rain is increasing, and I feel extremely hot. Still, I resolve to just try my hardest to make it through the rest of the drive, and am just about to heed a stop sign when something flies at my windshield.

I scream, louder than I thought, apparently, and come to a screeching halt. I breathe (somewhat) evenly to shake off the scare I just had, and see that it's nothing more than a flyer or something that just hit the front of the car. I sigh gratefully. I was terrified it was some kind of bird gone berserk because of the storm, Alfred Hitchcock style or something. I pull over to the side of the street to remove it. 

When I get close enough to read the paper, it says something I've seen a thousand times before. I shake my head knowingly.

A kegger. I snort. Who actually goes to those things? Alcoholics? Ha! Most likely. I sigh, noticeably vexed, as I trudge back to the Jeep. 

The rest of my drive is long and impatient, and when I finally reach my house, I am so relieved I could kiss our old beat-up mailbox by the front porch. _Finally. _I pull into the driveway hurriedly and turn off the engine and everything in two nano-seconds flat, and run up to the porch quietly. 

When I get inside, I walk cautiously through the entryway and slip off my blue flip-flops, sniffing the air. Nope. No brewing coffee, which means that even if Luke left, Lorelai is still asleep. He usually leaves her a pot to heat up later, which annoys her a bit, so then she usually dumps it out and makes a fresh one. "If I wanted cold coffee I'd just go to Starbucks, or…dig up a pile of dirt and throw water on it. Mud, I'd drink mud! How could I forget the word 'mud'?" 

I sigh, letting everything bad that happened drift off me and float away, and, at long last, fall onto my couch, much like I did last night. Oh wow. Last night. That seems so far away. I block all incoming thoughts of it and close my eyes, savoring the release that's surrounding me. I was going to get back in bed, but this will do. I let out a huge breath, adjusting the pillows and myself until I am content. 

It's been a long day. 

And I'm not even dressed yet.

_  
  
_

  __


	6. In The Punch

_Narcissus_

****

Author: SweetThing

****

Chapter: 6 "In The Punch" 

****

Disclaimer: _Some enchanted evening_…I will own everythiiiiiiing! Hah! Except not. Nothing's mine, folks, and it never will be. *sniff* Such a beautifully cheesy song! Oh, and the title and lyrics are from "Caught Up In You" by Convoy, off of their album, _Black Licorice._

****

Author's Note: I'm really sorry it took me this long for this chapter, I got a job and it's been keeping me busy, along with school and life in general. Thanks for reviewing, and I hope you all keep on enjoying the story. 

****

Dedications: Elise, because she's the best beta ever, and helped tremendously with this chapter, Jamie for being Jamie, Surya for her computer support (lol!) and Janine, for her encouragement and because were soul mates J . 

__

I'm caught up in the game/ That someone is to blame/Could just be the same though I really can't complain/ I'm caught up in the punch/I always take too much…/I feel a little guilt, but I know it's just a crutch…

__

Well, it's that time again! A voice in my head sounds as I shift away from the girl next to me and sigh audibly. It's too late before I realize she is doing the exact same thing, and I clear my throat, saying nothing of course, because of, well, what we just _did_. About two seconds ago. It's always like this, right after we've actually had sex, because we are forced to take off the masks we put on during the act and realize what we've been doing. Willingly and everything. Although it's become sort of routine over the past months, it's still a little hard to wrap your mind around in this particular space of time, between defeat and agony. It's awkward and it kind of makes your skin crawl. 

So this is why I stare at the ceiling, allowing us both to get our bearings back, as the fan above us spins in a continuous orbit, bringing unnecessary air to the room. I don't dare look at her, for obvious reasons. Yep. Here we are. I fight the urge to voice my thoughts as I turn my eyes to the clock, which reads exactly one a.m. Looking at the clock is big with me, for some reason. Especially in this situation, when it's dark and I don't have anywhere else to look. Obviously. Wow. My brain is still all messed up and heavy from sex, and my thoughts come slowly, plodding along and falling into some abyss when they pass. Ugh. I shake my head a little, groggy. 

Besides this feeling of being half-awake, though, I actually feel pretty…well, I feel good. Now whenever my mind lands on Charisse, it stops and is clouded over with what just happened. I am numbed. 

And it doesn't feel half-bad. But then, that sounds selfish. Still, whenever I feel guilty about this or have some sort of regret about something, I remind myself that my "partner", so to speak, experiences the same feelings I do that are derived from having an agreement like this, if I don't know anything else about her. (And it's very possible that I don't, really, either). It's just…her expression, I guess, sometimes. Her eyes. It's evident, she needs this. Or something like this. I don't know. I pause for a second.

Wait. Partner? What the fuck? Now we're gay? Here come those slow thoughts again. I sound like a preppy upper-crust teenage boy, which is pretty sad because that's what I am. Was. I almost burst out laughing at the irony of everything, but decide to see if Rory is awake instead. 

"Hey---"

She sounds slightly irritated as she replies, 

"What?" Something is different though; the entire tone of things is shifting. I know exactly why she doesn't want to talk. 

So of course, I keep on chatting.

"Do you ever lie here after we're, you know—finished, and think, 'What the hell did I just do?'" 

I hear her move around a little.

"You mean after the first time?"

"Uh, yeah," I say knowingly. 

She pauses for a minute. Then, 

"Every goddamn time." Never misses a beat, either.

I nod in acknowledgement, then reply, 

"Just wondering."

"Yep." 

I hear her let out a breath, and wonder if her brain stalls as much as mine does afterwards. Hmm. I'm thinking no, mostly because girls, women, rather, are different. They think more, they feel more, they magnify everything, it's just the human condition, I guess. I shrug internally. Like most men, I'll never fully get it. I yawn. 

"So, in a bit, you want to g—"

"No," she breaks in, "You see, Tristan, uh, _interesting_--- as that was, I'm really not in the mood for more of your confident yet devastatingly overrated fumblings tonight, alright?" She bites back.

"Oh, oh. Fumblings? I'll have you know that back in the day when people actually appreciated my efforts, I---"

"Oh save it, Harry Burns! Just because a former girlfriend faked it and told you it was amazing or life-altering does not mean you're even half of what you think you are in this…department!" 

I almost gasp. Did she really just say what I think she said?

"Excuse me? First of all, you have no idea whether my past girlfriends or whoever has faked it with me,"

"It's possible, you know! We do it all the time!" She fires back. 

"And second of all---wait, wait wait. I've heard that myth, of course," I say moving closer to her in the dark, "But are we talking, _all _the time?" 

She meets my eyes. At least, I think she does. 

"All the time," she repeats slowly, defiantly. 

I make a weird noise then, something caught between scoff and a gasp. 

"Oh, come on!" I practically yell, recovering from my slightly bruised ego, "You think I buy that smartass feminist dribble? There may be times," I continue, turning towards her in the blackness, "Where you…well, you either don't, you don't and pretend you do, but when you do---" I grin evilly---"You do." 

There is a break in the heated argument just then. I'm expecting her to shoot back her defense, but she does nothing. I look at her strangely, (the best I can, anyway) then realize she is shaking. 

With soundless laughter. Great.

Then she seems to get her voice back as she chokes out, 

"I---don't—believe you! You strut around in this macho—aura, and just think you know—exactly—what—I'm---I just—Oh my God!" Her hysteria overcomes her then, and she's cut off by her own voice. I finally reach over to turn a light on, and after rubbing my eyes, see that Rory has been laughing so hard she's practically tipping over onto her back. The bed is slapped once as she tries to go on. 

"It's just, why do you think that you're so---you? You have no idea whether I actually…and yet you just build up this whole schpiel and expect me to not laugh at your ridiculous little notions that I—oh, jeez. I have to—" she snorts—"I have to calm down." She wipes her eyes haphazardly. "I'm sorry about that, but really, you have no idea whether I 'do' or 'don't', Mr. Johnny-Come-Not-So-Lately," She snickers. " So don't even think that—" 

My jaw has dropped at the rather prickly nickname she just dropped in there, but I manage to recover it as I snap,

"What?! That was uncalled for, not to mention completely false, Miss Map of the World!"

Her eyebrows raise. "Are you serious?"

"Does down really mean up?" 

Then, something comes to a screeching halt, and I wince internally. That one was slightly below the belt. She responds in kind, after a gasp,

"Jesus, you son of a bitch! Don't even---you—ugh---I—wait, why are we even discussing this anyway? It's too freakishly---something, it's just too freakish, period," she rambles. I am smug now. I've managed to turn the odds in my favor.

"That's right. Just back on out, sister." 

"Shut your mouth!"

I chuckle. "Whatever you say." 

"Please don't coddle me because you got the last word in," Rory warns fiercely. "I don't want to hear it, ass wipe." 

I do, though, and I pat her shoulder as gently as I can muster.

"Now, now, Rory, I know it's tough to feel the pain of losing this well, whatever it was, but in time, I think---"

She kicks me in the shins under the sheets, hard. "Fuck!" 

"I warned," she reasons with an innocent smile. "But what I asked was a legitimate question, you know. Why were we 'talking', to use the word loosely, about this?" 

I pause at that. Do I have any idea in hell what sparked a heated exchange about orgasms and kinky stuff like that? Of course not. But it was weird as hell. I opt for half of the truth, not lying but not admitting she was right, either. 

"I don't know. Our conversations are always---"

"Bizarre?"

"I was going to say twisted, but you win the prize." 

"Goody."

"Yeah." 

And just like that, the switch is flipped. We're two people in bed together again. It seems we have run out of gas, probably because it's so late, err, early. Just then Rory chuckles to herself. I look up, surprised. 

"You know what's so incredibly sad about all of this?" 

"Uh, what?" 

"Right now, here I am, arguing with you for the umpteenth time about whatever's under the sun. And right now, probably at this exact minute, Steve is out there, somewhere, _fucking_ my roommate!" Her arm comes up and then drops in defeat. "Isn't life just peachy, Tristan?" She says, her voice heavy with fake irony. I've never heard the word "fuck" sound dirtier, more out of the proverbial gutter, than when she's just said it. Comprehension dawns on me then.

"Wait, this guy's with your roommate, now? How the hell did that happen?" 

"Oh, I don't know, it was just one of those things! You know, a guy who you think loves you and would be in it for the long haul, who was in it for the long haul, even though I hate expressions like that, turns out to see your roommate in a whole new light when she jumps out of the shower to greet him, then all of a sudden he can't be bothered with you anymore so he makes up all this bullshit about moving in different directions and not loving you and—no wait, that part was true, come to think of it--- except he left out the minor detail that he may have had feelings for a person I thought I could trust! Who I thought was my friend! Who---who…" Then she suddenly deflates, not having enough energy to finish the chain of ranting and rambling that she's started. I decide to humor her.

"So basically, he never said anything about maybe liking your roommate, but it turned out she was the reason all along? That's why he broke up with you?" I sum up.

She's kneeling now, having risen to the position in the midst of her laughing fit. Her shoulders slump. 

"I pass the prize to you, my good man," She says with a flourish and an accent to boot, trying to find something funny about what she's just revealed to me. I go on. 

"And you just found this out…how and when, exactly? Just curious." 

Rory sighs, but keeps her façade to the last instant. "Oh, yesterday. About twelve hours ago to be exact. From Bailey. The roommate," she adds to clarify. 

"Ah. The best way, right?" 

"Yep. It didn't really help that I found them making out. Or rather, it was most likely foreplay of some sort, because I'm pretty sure her shirt was unbuttoned. Or was it unzippered?" She mocks confusion. "The whole thing was kind of a blur, what with the fumbled explanations and all. But yeah, Bailey did most of the talking. Steve was too busy trying to regain his composure." She finishes bitterly, with a wry tint to her voice that I seldom hear. Wow. Ouch. That is not a fun way to find out that the reason you got dumped is now worse and more painful that you thought. I'm suddenly thankful I've never spoken to Brice, nor do I plan to. It is now that I know I have to be careful. The vulnerability's a bitch. If I've learned one thing tonight, that's it right there. 

"Wow. I mean, that's just---"

"Oh, I know, I know. Believe me, everyone's given every kind of sympathy talk over the past two days. I just…I don't know…I…" She stops there, turning away from me, and I'm not sure what to do, as the entire tone to the conversation has dramatically transformed into some weird scene from a romantic comedy. Jesus. That's the last thing any of this is. So I slowly reach over and turn the light back out as I hear her shift and lie back down, stiffly. Even though this should've signaled the end of the communicating for the night, I somehow have a feeling that something isn't quite done.

All of a sudden, her voice breaks, and she's speaking again.

"He didn't want me! Why didn't he want me? Am I really so different that I just—" But she can't go on, it seems, because she then practically bursts into sobs, and clutches the first thing she can find. 

Uh, yeah. 

So before I know it, I'm consoling a crying Rory, half-naked, in my bed, the saline stinging a scratch on my chest. 

"Come on, you know you're not… different. You're just like everyone else. Like me, and--"

"Are you _trying_ to agitate me further? I'm nothing like you, thank God!" 

"You know what I mean, alright? It's not your fault your ex---Steve--- doesn't feel the same way anymore, even if it was because of another girl. I mean, he was a jerk for not telling you. It's his fault. Alright?" 

"Yeah, whatever," Her sentence keeps getting interrupted by sniffs and swallows, "Just spare me the fake sympathy crap, alright, DuGrey?"

"Hey, you're the one who---alright, alright, fine." I decide arguing is, for once, not the best option here. I make another decision---to let her let everything out. So I don't say anything as she continues to wallow in her misery, crying until she has no tears left. As much as we loathe each other, I get the feeling this is some girl thing. She has to do this to try to move on from it, or some psychological diatribe like that. Then, I suddenly notice something. Her skin is bare, (obviously) but before I know it my hand is moving, and I get a strange sense of déjà vu as I automatically rub her back a little, hoping she won't notice. It's instinct, and I'll admit it, she has nice skin. Then I come across something. 

"Hey, did you know you have this little mole right---" I touch it—"Here?"

Her sobbing grows louder then, and I take that as a no. Whoops. Probably not the right time to be mentioning skin flaws right now. 

"I'll shut up now." 

"Thank—" another sniff---"You."

I nod to nobody in particular as her crying continues into the night, moving only to shift my position to something more comfortable. She, of course, pays no mind, but does eventually notice my bored air drawing on her shoulder blades. 

"When I said fake sympathy, I meant all forms of it, Slick."

I roll my eyes. 

Talk about your long night. Jesus. 

* 

In the morning, Rory has moved away from me, thank God, in her sleep, but as I wake up I notice the wet spot on her pillow. I sigh, letting all the stress of last night fade away heavily. It is only then, rubbing my eyes, that I notice that not only has she moved away from me, Rory's nowhere in my bedroom. I reluctantly get up to search for her, slightly creeped out, with a tinge of apprehension. Where the hell could she be, and more importantly, what is she doing? Nothing dangerous, hopefully. The whole saga from the previous night plays out in my mind, as told to me by her. I roll my eyes again. The poor girl could be doing God knows what, in my house nonetheless.

"Ror?" I pad through my rather large room, check the bathroom (alright, that was stupid of me) and finally stop at my doorway. I look down the upstairs hallway, through the elegantly decorated walls and pillowy carpeted floors. Nothing. Then suddenly, I hear noises coming from my closet. Wait. The closet? What the… I stride quickly over to the door, and find none other than Rory herself going through my clothes, making what looks like two piles. 

"What the fuck---" I start, but to no avail.

"Hello there," she greets me calmly, almost sunnily. 

"Wha—what are you _doing_, may I ask?"

"Well, I woke up around five, got bored, decided I had some energy to burn, then in turn came to the conclusion that your closet is not nearly organized enough. I mean, it's a freaking' mess in here! So I figured that you wouldn't care, what with the way you treat everything else, about your clothes being on a different spot on these haphazardly put up shelves over here. Did you know I actually found a pair of boxers with a hole in them?" She adds. All I can do for a moment is stand there, but I quickly recover and open my mouth.

"Gee, thanks, Mrs. Cleaver. You're organizing my closet? Why?"

Now she's irritated, snapping, 

"I already told you, moron! It was a fucking hole and it smelled like god-knows-what! I sprayed some air freshener, too." Her tone drops from extremely irked, basically normalcy, to a chipper, overly cheery one in two seconds flat, and it's scaring me.

"Alright, alright, alright---God. So, uh…where are all my clothes now? I guess my basic idea of organization was a little off, huh?" I laugh a little nervously. 

She nods brightly. "Your shirts are over here, and I put all the dirty ones in this basket over here. Throwing everything all over the place does _not_ constitute a closet, Tristan." She giggles manically, and I raise an eyebrow as she guides me through the rest of the closet, never faltering as all of my articles of clothing are accounted for. 

*

Almost two hours later, I've finally knocked some sense into her with some coffee, as we sit in silence at the kitchen table. I am extremely relieved, as it took her long enough to drop the closet act and to come downstairs. She sighs just then. 

"Look, I'm sorry about…all that up there." 

I shrug. "S' alright. Scared me a little, but…"

She chuckles. "I know. I was taking my anger out on your closet. I always do this whenever I'm upset. I feel like I can't control anything, so I do bizarre chores or organize something."

I nod. "We all have our moments, right?"

Rory quirks an eyebrow. "Which reminds me…I've never seen you do anything like this. Do you ever really just…unravel? I mean, it happens to the best of us."

I nod again. "Of course. I just…don't show it as much when I do, I guess. I walk around in a macho aura, remember? I'm too tough." 

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head a little. "Yes, that's right, I forgot. By the way," she continues, "I also wanted to tell you, I'm sorry about…that whole thing last night. I shouldn't have…shouldn't have dumped all that on you."

"It's okay. Again, did it freak me out? A little, but I've seen girls cry. You were just being normal." 

"Or extremely fucked up."

I smile a little. "Same thing, right?"

Rory seems surprised, but laughs and grins. "Right. I guess so." 

We share a small, wan smile, and then the seriousness is past. 

"So, it's…" I check the clock, "Almost eleven, here, and I have a suggestion that I think will benefit us both and---"

"You think I'm doing it with the lights on with you? No way in hell. Talk to me when the sun goes down, alright, Stifler? It's too icky otherwise." She makes a face. "Oh, and you're over eagerness astounds, as usual. It's really starting to get grating, here, so turn it down a notch, please."

"But that's the whole point, figured the more obnoxious I am, the more irritated you'll become, thus, you will give in out of sheer frustration." I am totally serious. It's a theory I've developed over time. 

She just looks at me, kind of sadly. 

"You'll really take it any way you can get, won't you?" 

I look right at her. "I'm shameless. But you should know that by now."

"I did, I just…forget sometimes or something, I guess. It's really quite pitiful." 

"Ah, but you forget, you're not much better yourself, there, June."

She frowns and glares at me. "Spare me the suaveness or whatever you call that, will you?" She starts back up the stairs, at a jogging pace. I quickly follow her to see if I can strike some sort of a bargain or something along those lines. 

Oh my God, I'm pathetic. 

And the worst part is, I couldn't care less.

*

About an hour later, we emerge from my bedroom, but only because women take the longest showers I've ever come to know. Not that I was with her, of course, but the wait alone was a pain in the ass. She looks refreshed, though, and I'm just glad she's not crying anymore. My nerves can only take so much. Her ex just doesn't sound worth it. Then again, I've never met the guy, but it seems like the hits just keep on coming with him. 

I'm ahead of her on the stairs this time, and we make aimless chitchat as she starts to exit my house. 

"…Cheesiest song ever written. Period."

"Oh come on, that song is a classic! It's what you sing along to when no one's in the car!"

"Please. All that chick does is yell, and sob and moan about some messed up relationship or lover that---hey…" An evil Cheshire grin crosses my face as I wonder whether I should let loose an insult of this caliber. 

Her face changes, and I realize in an instant that she's got it. 

"Yeah, you're hilarious. Don't even."

I chuckle a little. "Oh, Rory, when will you ever come to learn---"

"That you would've meant every word you would've just said? Sorry, already learned it. Try again, please."

Her tone is razor-sharp, like one of those kitchen knives you see in those wooden hutches. Small, but capable of piercing so painfully, you wouldn't wish it on anyone. People don't realize that the big ones are actually pretty dull—looking. But the average steak knife? You couldn't even run your finger across it. Something is hidden beneath the anger---her injured pride, I'd say. 

So I only give her a knowing look, and let her lead the rest of the way down the stairs, a bit eager for her departure. I want to nap before the party my friend Fuller (or Clarence, but call him that and he'll pound your face in) is throwing. It's been a while since I've seen these particular friends, and I really feel like letting it all hang out tonight. Maybe get wasted. Who knows, right? Maybe I'll meet someone. 

Meet someone. 

The words ring out, and the feel of them reverberates though my mind, echoing and pushing off the walls. They sound so incredibly weird that I can't shake them off. Do I really want to meet someone new? The answer is painfully obvious every time Charisse enters my mind, every time Rory and me are in the middle of…well, you know. It shows. 

Not in the least. 

Not because of this thing with Rory, of course, but because the last thing I want is another relationship. Rory's like the one-night stands I could be having, potentially, if we hadn't met up at that party. Sometimes parts of me pretend that she is someone else, that I don't even know her last name. But then I feel kind of guilty, so I focus on the task at hand again. I just…do it, at the risk of sounding like a Nike commercial. Or Julia Roberts. But still, I know that I'm so transparent, vulnerable, to said one-night stand, that I'm nowhere near ready to start dating again. It just…doesn't feel right. Not unless I met someone that really caught my eye, or who I got to know and really liked. But even then, I'd probably just want to be friends. I sigh. 

Suddenly, I realize Rory's been talking this whole time, and I snap out of my reverie. 

"…You really need to know that, otherwise, I fear you'll have no taste in music for the rest of your life, metal head." She finishes matter-of-factly, then turns to me. I go blank.

"Wait, what? Why do you care, even?"

She looks amused and pissed off at the same time, not an easy feat. 

"I don't care, but if I have to be subjected to your tragic, not to mention insulting, music collection ever again, or be in the car with you, you really need to have better taste. Plus, what else have I got to do? I'm a woman in mourning, remember?" Rory smiles wanly. 

I have a funny feeling in my gut just then, and I know exactly what it is this time. The guilt again. Ugh, jeez. I absently scratch the batch of my neck for a moment before I answer, 

"Alright, fine. But I doubt you'll reform me even half as much as you do in the---agh!" There she goes again with hitting. I try to fend her off the best I can as we approach my front door. 

Rory turns to say goodbye. "Well, off I go. Should I expect you to be on my doormat with you tongue hanging out next week, or over the weekend?"

I roll my eyes. "I will _come to your house_ around Wednesday or Thursday. And I don't appreciate the comment."

"Which is why I said it."

"Ooh, you're feisty this morning."

"_Ooh_, you're a bad preppy cliché this morning." 

I wave her off. "Why don't you understand, it's who I am?!" I mock a soap operatic tone. 

"Oh, darling, I'm ever so sorry but I can't! I just can't! We're through!" She matches my accent and starts out of the house. We both can't help laughing a little as she returns to her normal state. 

"Goodbye, Tristan," she says, almost sadly.

"Good_bye_, Rory," I reply, mocking her. She fakes a glare as she disappears from my sight, and I sigh again as I make my way back into the house. Now that _that's_ over with. I go back up to bed, not really tired but needing to lie down. Well. That's a strange feeling. But after all, I have been dealing with the bane of my existence all night. And this morning.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. 

*

Later on, I go through the motions of getting dressed, etc. for going out. Pants. Shirt. Cologne, which fills the air and almost gets in my eyes, tinting the room with the fresh scent of something by some guy who's name I can't really pronounce, but I've gotten good results with this stuff before: Cool Water. Not that I really want results per say, but…it's part of my routine. Then I grab my keys, shut the door, and am prepared to leave in less than twenty minutes. That should be a lesson to all the women, and, I am ashamed to say men, that spend a week and a day getting ready. You gotta keep it simple. 

I should write a book. 

I get into my car and proceed on my way to Fuller's, which is about a half hour across town. Supposedly he's going all out tonight. The place will be packed. But the thing is, I live for social events like this, because if I wanted to, I could own the place. People, for some reason, like me, and I feed off of that, that energy, the music. Everything. If I fancied, I could end up having one of the best times of my life tonight. After all, life is what you make it, right? 

I just wish I had it in me to try. God, there it is! Again! Why does everything automatically relate back to my fractured love life? Why is Charisse everywhere I go? Why can't I let go, even though everything in me is telling me I have to? There's just this one part of me that won't. It's easier to just mourn, it says. Moving on is too much work. Don't strain yourself. Let yourself grieve. Memories are so much nicer than the actual truth. 

And fuck, I end up listening to it. I need to overpower this, I need to start getting my emotional "baggage" or whatever you'd call it together and leave this eternal terminal, this "airport" from hell. It's time to leave. So why can't I? What's it going to take? I sigh tensely, loudly, and bang the dashboard as I hit a stoplight, frustrated and pissed off so immensely that my jaw clenches, and starts to cramp up. I hate this. I hate all of it. So I steel myself and develop a new will to get out of it, and pull myself out of my frame of mind. I am stronger than this. I am better than this. Tristan DuGrey doesn't let things like this get to him. He just keeps going, he forgets. Yes, I am over this. 

But I know in the back of mind that hours later, all of this will crumble. I will be drawn in by the temptation of the easy grieving solution, and the cycle will continue. 

I swallow. 

Not if I get smashed. 

*

When I arrive at Fuller's house, the party is already blasting from the house, the loud atmosphere sucking in anyone who gets within one hundred feet of it. The lazy air of summer surrounds me, making me slightly tired, or in need of a drink, possibly both. I opt for the latter as I make my way into the house, looking for the man himself. 

Then,

"DuGrey! How the hell are ya, bitch?" 

I laugh. "What's up, Fuller? I've been better." 

He instantly realizes the reason for my response. I flinch internally.

"Ohhh….yeah, man, that sucks about Charisse," his eyes are wide, dilated, and I see immediately that he's wasted no time. His tone is overly serious as he continues, 

"But, hey, I mean, ladies are…ladies. They're like a bad beer. Once you get them out of your system…you'll be fine." He waves his hand elaborately. "Just fine," he slurs. 

I smile wanly. "Yeah, but that involves hurling, you know man? It just…" I trial off as I realize that Fuller hasn't been following me since I started talking, and is already leering somewhat at a girl who has just walked in. Long hair, chunky highlights. I sigh, and wonder why I bothered. I move on to find some more people that I know from my floor, where one of them immediately offers me something really, really stiff.

I down it anyway. 

A few hours later, my mind is significantly numbed, and I'm having trouble focusing, but I don't really care because at that moment my RA, Dan, is telling one of the funniest stories I've ever heard in my life. 

"And then he goes, 'So why don't you just do it? I hear it's been outlawed in all thirty-eight states!'" 

Oh my God. He's a genius! I crack up, along with the rest of my companions, who are about as drunk as I am right now. Yes, I can admit that I'm drunk. I don't really go into denial for about three or four more drinks. Everything swirls around me as Bill offers me another shot of something or other. I want to say Yagermeister. I throw it back despite the change in the atmosphere. 

"Excellent story, man. Just _exxxc_ellent," I feign a shaky Mr. Burns as the rest of the guys continue gasping and sputtering in their drunken stupor, much like myself. Jerry, another friend of mine, finally regains his normal breathing patterns. 

"That wasn't bad, DuGrey. Not bad at all." He gives me a high-five unsteadily. I return it with equal drunken finesse. Some of the guys are still in the throes of laughter, the sound surrounding us like the ocean or something. 

"Aww, man," says Ken as he wipes his eyes, "You know what really really sucks? Like I mean _really_ really?"

"Getting stuck in your zipper when someone opens the door on you?" asks Kevin, the Donkey Lips of our little bunch, if you will. He's not too bright, but he has a lot of street smarts, if you know what I mean. It's getting harder and harder to focus as our corner of the room erupts in laughter yet again, and Jerry replies,

"Why, man, are you telling me that that happened to you? When? Come on, we want details!" Everyone adds their murmur of agreement. 

He cowers though, and won't say anything specific except,

"Let's just say it wasn't a pleasant experience," he says uncomfortably, and forcefully reaches for another beer. We all snicker quietly. 

"But no, no, no, guys, I mean women. They whine—"

"They demand," adds Ken, rolling his eyes, "The other day, Theresa sees this ring in the jewelry store window, right? And so I say, 'Well, you never know, maybe one day you'll end up getting it,' just as a little hint for her birthday—"

"Wasn't her birthday like last month, man?" I ask, unsuccessfully holding back a snort. 

"It's the principle of the thing! I meant for next year, jackass! Anyway, so that night, she gets all pissed at me when I don't have the freakin' ring for her at dinner! I booked a nice place," he explains, "Thought that maybe she could use a change, and—"

"Well, did you give her anything, Boorsma?" asks John casually. 

"A flower!" he says defensively, "Well, you know, some roses," he clarifies, shaking his head. "I mean, how ungrateful can you be? Does she think I'm fucking made of money?"

"I don't know, your parents _are_ pretty loaded," says Jerry matter-of-factly. Ken, in turn, hits him hard on the arm. 

"Oh, ho ho," Jerry jeers obnoxiously, "Now I'm scared. You wanna settle this out back, buddy?"

"Just tell me where," seethes Kenny, unaware that Jerry has just stated the location. I start laughing at the irony of it all, well whatever irony I can process at this point, and about a minute later everyone joins me and calls Ken's bluff. 

"Alright, alright, sit down, Boorsma, you guys are totally wasted, let's not do anything—" I belch loudly— "We shall regret," I say with decorum. When the laughter dies down, (you laugh a terrible amount when you're drunk, it seems tonight) Jerry is about to start up his own girl troubles story. He is currently unattached.

"So I was with this chick the other night, and we had—" he motions for us to lean in closer--- "The most mind-blowing, I guess you could say, sex, and then in the morning, she up and leaves before I even wake up!"

There is a long silence as everyone processes what he just said. 

"Uh, McCarthy, isn't that what you usually end up doing after you're with a girl?" asks John. It's what we're all thinking, I can tell.

Jerry is a little taken aback by this, and he takes another swig of his drink before answering.

"Well, yeah, yeah, but…but…but that's my point! I'm the one that's supposed to be leaving, not her! It's all that women empowerment shit," he continues, going off on a tangent, "It makes them think they can just push us around and…and—" 

He then sees our expressions.

"Alright, alright! God! It's just…why'd she leave? That was damn good sex, I'm telling you!" He sighs, defeated. 

"You know what you need, man? An actual relationship," says Kenny confidently, "I mean, then you get steady good sex, if you're lucky." He then snickers a little at his own comment. I snort. He's almost as hammered as I am. 

"Yeah, I mean it did wonders for DuGrey over here," John puts a friendly arm across my shoulders, sort of halfway.

I smile bitterly. "Yeah, wonders. All she did was leave me for some bastard. I'm a whole new man." I am dead serious, but of course, everyone finds this hysterical. It is now my turn to forcefully take another sip of my drink.

Dan chimes in then, "Yeah, but there's so much goddamn hassle, you know? I mean, I think the perfect relationship is the no-strings kind, you know? Then you got none of that commitment shit and everything." He slurs the last part, and I suddenly have an epiphany. I _have_ that relationship! I quickly cut in. 

"Hey, guess who's in something like that right now, huh?" I grin.

They all gasp and look at me, disbelieving. 

"No fucking way!"

"When?" 

"With who?"

"Alright, alright," I hold up my hands as if I'm the host of a freak-show, holding back the line to get in or something like that, "All your questions will be answered," I slur. 

"So…come on man, fill us in!" John presses.

"Yeah, this is the first tail you've gotten since Ch—"

Everyone shushes him, in an act of loyalty, but it's a little too obvious since I can hear them and everything. Jerry, the "betrayer" of the group, quickly stops what he's saying. 

"Right, right. So, come on, some details, if you would?"

I laugh. "Well, you know, started about a couple months ago, we met up at this party, and after that she couldn't keep her hands off me. Had to have the whole package, if you get what I'm saying." 

"You mean you didn't do her at the party?" Jerry asks, pausing.

I give him a look the best I can. 

"No," I say, humoring him, but making sure I get my air of importance in. "I mean, it was one of _those_ parties, you know?"

They all nod. "Ahh. Okay."

"So anyway, after this party, where we made out only," I continue, looking at Jerry, "She comes to my house and says all this stuff, like how she can't stop thinking about what happened and everything, and to be honest, neither could I—"

"You in love with this chick?" Kenny almost accuses. 

"Psht. Are you kidding me, man? She's a total head case! I mean, you wouldn't even believe some of the stuff that she says, it's crazy!" I could talk about this all night!

"Wow. Okay, man, I believe you," Kenny chuckles, shaking his head. "So what happened after that?"

I lower my eyebrows. "What do you think?" 

"Ha-hah!" Everyone offers their renditions of this as I shakily move to throw my beer out. When I get back form the short trek, everyone is eager for me to continue. 

I sit back down. "So anyway, ever since then, we go to somebody's house and---" I make a punching motion with my hand and fist for effect—"You know what I'm saying, right?" I nudge the closest guy next to me teasingly, and hold out the word 'right' a little longer than I should. They all smile knowingly. 

"Wow, DuGrey, this is relatively big news since you've been in a dry spell for---how long now?" Kenny asks.

"Practically forever!" Chimes in Jerry, always the over-sexed one. 

I cock my head a little and shrug. "It's nothing. No big deal." 

"So is the sex any good?" Jerry wants to know now.

"Wait, wait, wait just a second here," says Dan, "The most important question has to be answered first—" he pauses—"Who is it?"

I hold back a little, for some reason I can't remember floating at the back of my mind. I shrug it off easily and fire out the name, 

"You guys remember Rory Gilmore?" 

There is a mutual gasp among my friends. 

"What—"

"You mean---"

"That uptight chick from high school?!" Kevin practically squeals, almost spitting out his drink. A few of the guys and me go all the way back to my Chilton days. 

"Wait, wait, who is this now?" Dan ponders, not knowing who I'm talking about. 

"She's Richard and Emily Gilmore's granddaughter," I explain, "We went to high school with her, and she wasn't exactly the school skank."

"More like the exact opposite!" Jerry jumps in eagerly, "She was like, a total prude, wouldn't give any of us the time of day, always had her nose in a book somewhere when she wasn't in class. I think she dated guys who didn't go there, actually."

I wave it off. "Maybe, I'm not sure." 

The guys who know who Rory is look at me in awe. I have conquered the impossible. Wow! I can't believe I didn't think about this before! 

"So, Rory Gilmore, huh?" John asks in amazement. He then looks at me so knowingly that I know exactly what he's going to say next.

"How the hell is _she _in bed?" 

I look at them nonchalantly. "Ah…standard, you know. But sometimes, I don't know, man, she can be a little vixen, you know what I'm saying? Yeah?" 

They all start whooping and hollering. "No way!" "You have got to be kidding me, DuGrey!"

"Well, just a little," I say, the pitch of my voice rising. "You know how it is." 

Everyone chuckles as more questions are raised regarding style and technique, and the conversation continues into the night, until another far more interesting topic is brought up: how big is too big? I don't have time to think about anything else after that, obviously. 

*

The next morning when I wake up, at approximately one-ten p.m., my head is pounding, my stomach is churning, and I have no idea how I got home. Ugh. Oh God. I roll over in my bed, trying to retrieve the lost blankets that have fallen on the floor and put them in the proper place around my body. Huhhhhh. I make a noise of contentment. There we go. I'm not getting up for at least another two hours; I don't have to work today anyway. But first, I need some serious aspirin. 

Oh, man! But that requires getting up! Shit. 

I weigh the options sleepily, and decide that if I'm going to be the most comfortable I can be, I need to get rid of this fucking headache I've developed. Now. So I get up and pad down the stairs to the kitchen, and half-heartedly search for the IB Profen amongst the barrage of other medications my family has saved and bought over the years, brought together in one huge cabinet. 

I finally locate it, pop two, swallow them with a hastily poured glass of water, and run up the stairs like I used to do when I was about twelve or so, or younger. Right now, even being as old as I am, I feel like shit, and my only goal is getting back into bed as quickly as possible to sleep this off. I'm like a little boy again. It sucks, hard. Anyway, once I get back into bed I hit the light, pull the sheets over me, which contain possibly ever blanket I've ever owned, and proceed to sleep. 

*

The next time I really get up, it's almost five o'clock, as I read on the digital, and although my headache is pretty much gone, I still have this awful, groggy feeling in my whole body. Jesus. That's it, I am most definitely staying in tonight. I don't feel like doing anything except laying somewhere and just being. 

Still, though, I leave my bed only to put some decent clothes on and to brush my teeth, and decide to see what's on T.V. I hop back into bed and flip it on, starting to stroll along channel-surfing beach. 

News. 

News. 

__

Family Ties rerun. 

Lifetime eating disorder movie. 

Bad Nickelodeon cartoon.

The thousandth showing of _Office Space._ God! Where's the needle in the haystack here?

A couple channels later, I finally stumble on a _Simpsons_ rerun. Finally! Now, this is good T.V. right here. I laugh as Homer inevitably does something stupid (in this episode he's trying to build a barbeque pit), and then it gets turned into something totally off-the-wall. This is something that never gets old with me. It just—

Just then I hear a door being unlocked.

My dad. Shit. 

I had forgotten that he comes home early on Sundays. Oh Jesus. This should be a fun family gathering! I hear the door open then, and his footsteps as he puts down his briefcase and goes into his room. I listen intently, praying he doesn't go into my room to see if I'm awake.

It seems God took a little holiday vacation. 

The door to my room opens, and Will walks in and attempts to speak to me. 

"Hello there, son. Just getting up, I presume?" 

I snort rudely. "Hey, I'll have you know that I've been up for hours, patiently waiting for my dearest daddy's return." 

He sighs. "Tristan, being awake for half an hour and laying around for the duration of it does not constitute being up 'for hours'." 

"Well, dad, I guess I just decided to exaggerate a little. I suppose I got it from mom." I give him a knowing look. He thinks he's going to get me to play nice? Hah! The man knows exactly what I think of him. Nothing, not even his swift reform, is going to change that, because I and my mother would know that it would be complete bullshit. It's a vicious cycle of lies, drama, and hysterics that I'd rather not be a part of, but I am forced to be because I was unlucky enough to be born into this family. 

Then again, I could be over-reacting. He may just want to make small talk, in which case, I'd oblige him. The DuGreys are excellent at pointless, all-encompassing chit chat. It makes us feel richer or something, talking to everyone and pitying the "little people" who are unfortunate enough to be middle-class citizens. 

We're quite the bunch, aren't we?

But it is that moment that my father speaks again. 

"So, went to a big party last night did you? It's written all over that hung-over ridden 

face of yours." 

I smirk nastily. "Thanks for that, Will, I almost forgot about the blatant shame and guilt I should be feeling over disappointing you. Oh, please, forgive me, father! I promise I'll be good!" 

He looks a mixture of sad and extremely annoyed. "For your information, son, I was just making conversation, not trying to reprimand you for something I probably should be anyway! You never even let me get a word in edge wise anyhow! Why do I even bother with you?"

"Oh, you don't know how long I've been waiting to hear you say those words!" I exclaim melodramatically, then burst into a rendition of a song I heard on Will and Grace. _"Papa, can you hear me? Papa, can you see me? Papa, can you---_" But at that point, he's already slammed the door, and I smile to myself, proud of the expert tactics I used to get him to leave.

I lay back in my bed and stretch, making a loud noise from deep in my throat as I do so. Ugh. What a day. Well, the time I've been up, anyway. I decide to veg and watch some more T.V., a good decision, I feel, as it is one that doesn't require any movement whatsoever. Ahh. This is the life. As the Simpsons continue, I relax and let myself fall back into a deep sleep. I still need some recouping time, it seems. 

*

The next morning, I wake up to a slightly darker room. I rub my eyes and look out my window, pulling up the shade. It's the crack of dawn outside. Fuck, I must have slept through the rest of the night. The sky is a virtual canvas, with streaks of blue gold sweeping across it. It's actually kind of pretty, but I'm still annoyed as I throw off my sheets and rise, rubbing my eyes. Oh man, is my internal clock going to be messed up later on. 

As I make my way down the stairs, I notice that my father has left for work already, (thank God) so it can't be _that_ early. I go into the kitchen to pour myself some cereal. Milk. Cocoa Puffs. Spoon. I sit down in front of the living room T.V. and begin to eat. Life is good. 

But as I watch some morning movie, I am suddenly rudely interrupted by an insistent knocking on the door. 

I reluctantly get up, making sure I am decent, and go to the door to reveal---

Rory. Looking extremely pissed off at me. What the fuck? Uh-oh. 

"Can I talk to you, DuGrey?" She spits, her hair looking a little wild, eyes burning. 

"Well sure, but I--"

But she won't have any of it as she stalks into the room and pulls me, practically by my collar, over to the couch and sits me down on it. 

"Did you really think you could fucking get away with this? That I wouldn't find out? 

What the hell did you think you were doing, you idiotic piece of crap! You can't just go around---"

"Hey, hey, hey! Can we stop the barrage of insults for a second here? What's going on? What are you talking about?" I say, stunned and a little afraid. But just a little, of course. 

"What am I talking about? What am I talking about? What--I--" She stops then, amazed that I have no idea what she's going on about. 

Her tone changes to a slightly calmer one. 

"An hour ago, Paris called me--"

"Paris Gellar? How the hell is she? I haven't seen her since---" She cuts me off with an icy stare. 

I motion for her to continue, almost rolling my eyes but deciding against it. 

"She called me and wanted to know how the in hell I could go around sleeping with you, you insensitive jerk! She said her friend Kevin was at the party you were at last night, and you told all your little buddies everything! And they told their friends, at least, the ones who were sober did, and they told people and now--" She cuts herself short for some reason and looks at me. I am still reeling from the shock of what I just heard, and as hard as I try, I can't remember telling anyone anything about our agreement. I know one thing: we are screwed, unless I come up with some way to quell the spreading of this. The whole intricate college "society" is going to know by the week's out. 

She looks at me then. 

"How could you do this? How could you humiliate me, not to mention yourself, like this? Are you stupid? Do you know what people are going to say? What jokes are going to be flying around? How. Could you?" She is almost shaking with anger, but all I can do is plead the fifth, so to speak. 

"I was drunk, Rory! Jesus Christ! I didn't even know what I was saying, I just must've blurted it out, alright! I'll figure out a way to fix this, and everyone will stop talking about us, and all of this will be for nothing, okay? God!" 

"You think you can just make all this go away? How? Enlighten me, genius!"

"I'll just tell everyone I lied, that I made it up, because I had too much beer in me. That's all," I say, growing increasingly annoyed by her freaking out like this. 

"You think it's that easy!? People always say tell the truth when you;'re drunk, Tristan, not the other way around. Your inhibitions go way down, and that's exactly what people will think! They won't believe you."

"Oh, come on, Rory, you think too much. If Kevin doesn't believe me I'll just tell him to tell everyone it isn't true, and swear that I lied. He'll believe me, at least, and then all of this will be done." 

"Don't you see, though? This changes everything, Tristan! It goes deeper than what people think. We can't ever---you know--again if people know! It would destroy us, not that I care so much about my reputation but---you nearly destroyed this, and…you…this..I'm going to regret this but you hurt me too, okay? You…you talked about me like I was some common whore, according to Paris! You gave out details, said I was standard but sometimes a 'vixen' in bed!? I don't care if you were drunk, if that's how you really feel about all this then maybe--maybe we shouldn't do this anymore." She pauses and looks really upset. I have no idea what to do. 

"You really want to stop doing this just because of some little mistake or something? Come on! You know that you wouldn't be able to! You find me too attractive," I say haughtily, opting for my normal approach. 

"Ugh! God, can't you ever be serious for a second! I mean it! You know what, that's it, this is over. It's done." She gets up and walks out of the room. "Goodbye, Tristan. Have a nice life. Huh. There's something I didn't mean." 

It is my first instinct to just let her go, thinking that this will all blow over once I talk to Kevin, and that she'll come back eventually, but I suddenly have a strong feeling of remorse, as everything she said sinks in a bit. I _did_ humiliate her. If I had been sober, I know I wouldn't have done it, but I did, and now…now…oh God…

I owe her an apology.

I quickly catch up to her, stopping her before she gets past the front door.

"Rory! Come on, don't just leave."

"Why shouldn't I? It's not like you care anyway, you're you." She says this so matter-of-factly that I almost cringe. Am I really that big of a jerk?

"Cut the crap, will you? I'm---I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to humiliate you or…or--hurt you, and I wouldn't have done this if I hadn't been extremely wasted. Alright? Can we stop all of this now?" 

I pause there, and look to see if I'm making any sort of an impact. She looks doubtful, still pissed even, but finally relents. She sighs. Her voice is still hard as she says, 

"Fine," she says, "I'm sorry…no, I take that back, I'm really not sorry I went pretty much psycho on you, because I think you deserved it, but I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. The fact…the fact of the matter is, I don't really want to stop this…thing, but I mean…you can't treat me the way you do and expect me to just take it like that! It's not fair." 

I lower my eyes. She's right again. Shit. 

I clear my throat. "I know. I just…get carried away sometimes, I guess. I don't know." I feel strangely unsure of myself. Something I am not used to. Oh, God. I don't like this. I don't like it one bit. 

She blows out some air tiredly. "Okay. Then I guess….I will see you on Wednesday?" 

"Better make it Thursday. I have to work late Wednesday." I reply. 

"Alright. So…Thursday."

"Yep…" 

"Okay…"

"Alright then. So…I'm gonna go now." 

"Fine." I reply, a bit weirded out. 

"Bye." 

"Bye." I space out for a second as she goes to her car, and end up watching her get into it, and she gives me one final glance. Her expression is unreadable, but it weirds me out even more as I go back into the house and resume my position on the couch, finding my cereal soggy and the movie I was watching to be over. Aww, man! Now I have to do everything all over again. I sigh in slight frustration. 

When I get a new bowl of cereal and find something else to watch, I lean back on the couch and close my eyes. I'm trying not to think about what just happened, but it still finds its way into my thoughts. I sigh again.

Well. That was interesting. 

__

I can't stop the waves from crashin'/I can't stop things that already happened/I can't stop, My hits from smashin' 


End file.
